


Like A Lighthouse

by Black_Calliope



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Danny/Coffee is totally a thing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rude Animals FTW, Sex Toys, also, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nu9KAR3Ok6w">"If I was blindfolded/ and my memory was erased/ If every sign pointed to another place/ I'd still find you/ I will still find you"</a> </p><p>When your reality doesn't match your heart's desires, when everything you have is perfect and bright but still <i>not right</i>, well, then maybe you have to start fighting and find your way back home. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a big thank you goes to my dear girl, [joji_387](http://joji-387.livejournal.com/), because without her this fic wouldn't have been nothing more than a short draft lost in a dusty folder. She has been the one listening to my endless rants, giving me advices when I had doubts and cheering me up when I was about to give up so- Thank you, Jo. <3
> 
> There is no way I can express my gratitude towards the other two people that have worked along with me during this months, the first one is my awesome beta, [valress](http://valress.livejournal.com/), who has definitely helped me to improve the quality of my writing. And, last but not least,  thank you [desertport](http://desertport.livejournal.com/), for choosing my story between many other ones and for having created the perfect art to go along with it. You are the best!
> 
> [Art Master Post](http://desertport.livejournal.com/138811.html/)
> 
> Edit: Since Joji387 is too awesome for words she drew me the [cutest fanart ever!](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_me5kr4zWVf1qasu5do1_1280.jpg) Thank you, babe! <3 

 

 

 

Steve wakes up to the soft rumble of the waves crashing on the shore; the deep, constant noise settling somewhere in the back of his head, rolling back and forth between dream and reality, dressing everything in a foamy white as he slowly discloses his eyes.

He yawns, enjoys the way his lungs expand when he inhales fresh, clean morning air, how his skin stretches around his ribcage. An instinctive, satisfied sound arises from somewhere inside his chest, resonating in his throat as he stretches under the sheets, cotton sliding off his upper body like water over a mirror.

The bedroom’s window is wide open, white curtains lazily swaying like broken, unique sails as pale, powder-pink light filters between them, flooding the bedroom with an almost surreal atmosphere.

Coming from outside he can hear the busy chirping of some early-rising Sandpipers, already up and industrious despite the early hour. He smiles, content. And to think that he used to dislike these little birds when he was still a kid, considered them to be too loud and annoying when the rest of the world was still buried nose-deep under the covers, asleep. Things change, though.

Goosebumps run over his bare arms when a whiffle of humid-cold sea wind penetrates between the open window, sneakily sliding over the cotton of the sheets and between his hair. The sudden sensation makes him grumble and, after he’s run his hand over his face and stretched a bit more, pushes him into getting finally up.

The wooden floor feels warm against his bare feet as he pads across it towards the bathroom. If there is something Steve can’t go without – at least when he’s somewhere safe – that is his morning shower, those few, perfect minutes in which he can be alone with himself before starting his day, collecting his thoughts before diving head-first into the craziness of his everyday life.

Steve drops his boxers on the floor in front of the shower stall, a soundless motion soon forgotten, as he steps out of them and turns the shower on, sliding under the spray. A sigh of contentment escapes his lips when water finally splashes on his face, warm streams running all over his body, over his wide shoulders, his nape, down his spine to the cleft of his ass. He opens his mouth, lets water pour inside it as he closes his eyes for a few seconds, enjoys the feeling of being enclosed in a rumbling cage, far away from everything else.

It lasts the time of a few heartbeats, every drop hitting his teeth, his tongue, marking each second, slowing it down to something much more bright and round- Then, a second later, his Navy-trained instinct kicks in and the charm is broken, as he open his eyes and grabs the shower gel, lets his last bits of sleep slide down the drain along with water and soapy foam.

When he gets downstairs a few minutes later the house is quiet and full of light, the white of the walls brightening the place in a way he’ll never get tired of. He runs his index finger over the edge of his desk as he walks past it, a stack of freshly ironed shirts is sitting in plain view on the wooden surface but Steve ignores it, instead he smiles, sliding his green t-shirt on, and heads straight to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he says as he walks trhough the door, voice still slightly morning-rough around the edges.

From his usual spot beside the window, Danny sets his eyes on Steve in the span of a second, lips suddenly curling into one of his bright, genuine smiles, all white teeth and crinkled eyes. He has a book in his hands and is sitting on his favorite armchair, the one made of worn, chestnut-brown leather that doesn’t match with anything else in the house and also has a chipped leg, but still it’s so perfectly comfortable that Danny would rather give up on his favorite tie than let Steve throw it away.

Steve knows it for sure, because the first and only time he’d dared to even _insinuate_ that the old piece of furniture might have almost reached the end of its life they were having dinner, and he remembers distinctly how Danny had suddenly let go of his fork, the metal dropping on the plate with a loud clack, and furrowed his eyebrows; almost at the same time his left hand had shifted toward the knife resting on the table, fingers caressing the red plastic grip in a very _crazy murderer about to go on a killing spree_ fashion. Steve had instantly shut his mouth, turning his full attention to the baby carrots sitting on his plate. They had stared back at him in an orang-ish, pitiful way.

That’s why Steve knows that the armchair is staying right where it is, in the warmest corner of the kitchen, far enough from the stove so that no flames, hot liquids or any sort of accident would threaten to ruin it -  even if Steve doesn’t understand how that would be considered anything but a _blessing_ -, and near the window, where Danny can easily steal a glance to the ocean from time to time, where he thinks that Steve isn’t watching him.

The fact is that, aside from when they are sleeping, such a moment doesn’t really exists, because Steve’s eyes are always drawn to Danny, almost like a compass’ needle always readjusting towards the north, everything in Steve’s life gravitates around Danny and, even if Steve wanted to, there wouldn’t be any way to stop it.

Something mewls into Steve’s abdomen, stretching lazily, sinking its claws into tender flesh as he takes a few steps ahead, braces himself on the smooth, lucid chair arms and leans right into Danny’s space, so close he can feel Danny’s breath shattering against his lips. “Hi,” Steve murmurs, and it sounds a bit silly but Danny doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps watching him from under his light-blonde lashes, his eyes shining with that profound, intense shade of blue that Steve loves so much.

And he must’ve been staring for a while, because suddenly Danny is grinning, wide and cheeky, and his eyebrows are doing that thing where they move imperceptibly inwards, just that tiny bit enough to underline that yes, Steve is somehow acting like an idiot but luckily Danny gets him anyway,  because that’s how they roll. And then Steve is grinning back, shifting his weight fully on his hands as he leans farther forward and plants a quick kiss on the left corner of Danny’s mouth, there where the skin is smooth and smells like Danny’s favorite aftershave.

Danny is smirking smugly when Steve lets go of the chair arms and pushes himself back upright, the book that he was reading is now lying on his thighs, still open and waiting and Danny doesn’t waste time to take it back in his hands, fingers curling around yellow-ish paper as he turns the page.

Steve does recognize the book as one from his father’s collection, but he can’t recall what it is about. He walks towards the fridge, suddenly hungry again. “What are you reading?” he asks as he opens it.

This time Danny’s eyes don’t abandon the page for even a second, he just lifts the book from his lap, showing the cover to Steve. “ _Fractals and their medical applications_ ,” Steve reads aloud. “Oh, I didn’t know that my father liked that kind of stuff.” In reply, Danny shrugs eloquently and basically continues ignoring him.

The fact doesn’t bother Steve at all, because his next target are the eggs that are now sitting on the kitchen’s counter, ready to be cracked and turned into the perfectly delicious breakfast that Steve deserves; so he turns on one of the stoves, places a frying pan on it and, while he waits for it to heat up enough, uses the spare time to make some fresh coffee. He moves quickly around the kitchen, squeezing a couple of oranges and then toasting some bread, the easy silence of the room broken just by the noise of pages being turned and eggs quietly frying.

It isn’t much later that a mouth-watering smell fills the air and Steve stirs the scrambled egg for a second longer, before setting them in the plate on the table; he shoots a quick glance to the clock,  which marks seven fifty-three in the morning, and then turns around to grab his and Danny’s cups from the counter. The porcelain is tinted of a deep shade of blue almost resembling the ocean’s, even if it lacks of that subtle game of light and shadows that makes the water loudly crashing on the shore outside the house so perfect, or at least they were until Danny decided to re-decorate them.

It’d been quite unexpected, because they had had these mugs for a long time, so much time that Steve can’t even remember how, or which one of them, had gotten them, and they’d always been blue, until, one day- They just weren’t anymore. Steve remembers that when he’d noticed it he’d hesitated, hand stopping mid-air, and then he had gaped, just because. Well.

Danny had been about half step beside him and he hadn’t even blinked, hadn’t even pretended to be somehow affected by Steve’s wordless surprise, he’d just grabbed a cookie and walked away as if nothing, leaving Steve to gape some more and then babble, and not in a _jeez, what happened to our mugs_ way, but, more specifically, in a _holy fucking shit, you drew a stylized pineapple on my coffee mug_ and _wait, is the scribble on yours supposed to be a monkey?_ way. Just to be clear.

Of course the culprit had acted as if Steve had been the one bullying his mug by drawing a sad excuse of a pineapple on it, frowning at and _judging_ Steve at any hour and in every place. Because Danny Williams isn’t the kind of man who takes prisoners, oh, no, he just had laid siege to Steve-town until he’d got what he wanted, which hadn’t been a blood sacrifice or something _so medieval_ , thank God, but an unconditional surrender, which, really, hadn’t been any better, since Steve had had to start using that pineapple-infested mug every morning, or better, re-start using it. And the first time he’d done it Danny had smirked evilly, kissing him loudly on the mouth before walking away and settling on the couch in front of the television, monkey-mug safely placed on the coffee table in front of him.

Steve had found the weapon of the crime – one of those permanent markers that parents never allow their children to have, because there might be _consequences_ – only a couple weeks after the fact, occulted into one of Danny’s drawers, under the never ending number of pairs of socks that Danny owned. The morning after Steve had woken up to a beautiful, sunny morning and a quite upset Danny who, for some reasons, wouldn’t stop pacing around the bedroom waving one of his favorite t-shirts with one hand and stopping from time to time to point at the huge, quite artsy pineapple that had been drawn on it.

The whole thing had been kind of funny. At first Steve hadn’t gotten why Danny would do something like that, he’d even judged it as something childish to do, something that didn’t suit Danny at all, but then, slowly, he’s gotten used to each one of them having their own cup. It’s homely in a subtle sort of way and it makes Steve smile every time he makes coffee, which is often, seen the quantity of said beverage that Danny likes to gulp down during the day.

And that’s why Steve fills Danny’s cup almost up to the brim, fresh brewed coffee still steaming hot, before taking it from the counter and bring it to Danny.

As soon as Steve is in front of him Danny looks up, fixing his eyes on the mug between Steve’s hands, his pupils dilating and then contracting like those of an eagle that has just spotted a juicy prey, showing the sudden change in his personal list of priorities. “Coffee,” Steve offers with a smile, slightly lifting the cup as if to underline his word.

It still amazes Steve how this only word seems to represent Danny’s own version of ‘open sesame’, how, after having tried it many times and during different circumstances, it still remains the only patented way to get Danny’s full attention.

And, once again, the trick doesn’t fail, because suddenly the book gets closed with a muffled thump and discarded – on the counter, where it’ll be retrieved from not much later – and Danny is pushing himself off the armchair and on his feet, blue eyes almost sparkling like fireworks reflecting on glass, as he steps towards Steve and reaches out to receive his precious, luscious gift. Just how Steve had predicted he would. “No,” he says with a mischievous grin, raising the cup high in the air where he knows that Danny won’t be able to get to it, not even if he tries to stretch on his toes.

In front of him, Danny frowns. His fingers twitch for a brief second before he lowers his hands, sets them on his hips, there where his white t-shirt slightly stretches around his hipbones, there where the mark of Steve’s teeth is slowly fading, purple turning into pale red as the days pass. And the thought is strong enough to make Steve almost want to slide his fingers between Danny’s, fingertips pressing into skin, just to see if it makes Danny squirm in that delicious way that Steve loves so much- But then he catches the disappointed look into Danny’s eyes, the way he has just barely pursed his lips, eyebrows faxing a loud and clear _oh, no, you didn’t just do that_ message to Steve’s direction. The lack of flying daggers appearing to be the only reason why Steve isn’t bleeding. Yet.

And that’s why, in spite of every rule of survival that he’s ever learned, Steve grins even more, lips stretching to reveal a line of white teeth. “Could it be that _now_ you are interested?” he jokes, eyeing alternatively the mug in his hand and Danny. There is a voice in a dark corner of his brain praying that the innocent prank won’t turn against him and that he won’t shower himself with hot coffee, because such a thing would inevitably lead to Steve procuring himself a first degree burn and to Danny laughing his ass off. Or, at least, he would until he’d see that Steve was somehow hurt, then he’d pull at his hand and drag him to the shower, taking the opportunity to sneak into it along with him and take care of Steve in his own way. Just because.

Somehow, during all the chanting and the thinking that is going on in his head, the mischievous glint in Steve’s eyes must have been replaced by something someway softer that has given him away, because Danny’s lip curl in a knowing way and his right eyebrow shift imperceptibly upwards. Steve grin falters a bit, procuring a perfect opening, and that’s the exact moment that Danny chooses to strike his counterattack. He pouts, lower lip wet and shining with spit and slightly pursed, long, pale eyelashes fluttering as everything in him shifts and becomes _pliant_ \- Steve groans, a low, almost inaudible sound that vibrates in his throat, right before decreeing that there is no way he could win the war, not when he’s to fight against _that expression_. Fuck it. “My price is a kiss,” he half-laughs, failing to keep a straight face anymore.

Suddenly Danny’s posture straightens, as if he hadn’t been almost _purring_ a second before in order to get his coffee, and he brings a hand to his chin, scratching his almost non-existent stubble as he pretends to consider Steve’s offer. Too bad that the craving dancing in his eyes betrays him, and Steve sees it coming seconds before Danny sighs – _so theatrically_ , because he can be such a little shit, at times – and places his palms flat against Steve’s solid chest.

Danny’s skin feels warm through the cotton of the t-shirt, and Steve loves the way his fingertips press against him, how one of Danny’s nail finds Steve’s left nipple and scratches it lightly, only that little bit enough to make it look like a coincidence, but Steve knows best. He stands still, barely breaths in anticipation as Danny pushes himself up on his toes, shifting his weight against Steve, stretching his neck just that little bit necessary to reach Steve’s waiting, soft lips.

It’s intended to be a short kiss, one of those brief, affectionate touches of lips that begin and end in the arch of a heartbeat, like the ones that Danny is used to plant on the middle of Steve’s chest when they have just had sex, when Steve’s heart is still beating to a crazy rhythm and  Danny is lying half on top of him, body covered in sweat and a satisfied smile lingering on his lips, his eyes tinted of so many shades of blue, almost like in one of those impressionist paintings- And Steve needs _more_.

Danny is balancing himself against him and so it isn’t hard for Steve to place the mug that he is holding somewhere safe and then circle Danny’s waist with an arm. And then Steve is taking a hold of one of Danny’s hips as he presses him against the cold marble counter and deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue between Danny’s smooth and perfect lips, licking the sharp edge of his teeth, tasting the lingering flavor of Danny’s mint toothpaste right into his mouth.

Like a river following its course, Danny doesn’t fight it for even a second, his movements fluid as ever as one of his hands shift towards Steve’s arm, fingertips softly digging into flesh as he keeps Steve right where he is and opens his mouth under Steve’s sweet assault, slowly turning the pace of the kiss from urgent to lazy.

It’s only a few minutes later, once the cup full of now lukewarm coffee is safe into Danny’s hands – because there is no such thing as non-edible coffee in Danny’s vocabulary, thank you very much – and he’s settled back on his armchair, observing each one of Steve’s movement with feigned disinterest, that Steve sits at the table, in front of his own, cold breakfast. Not that he minds. He really, really doesn’t.

The sky is terse and blue outside the French doors and Steve smiles between himself, thinks that today will be a good day. It always is.

***

“Danny? Danny? What are you doing in ther- _Oh_ ,” Steve stops right on the threshold of the guest room, interdict.

Inside the room Danny is sitting cross-legged on the floor, in front of an open closet, his back is half-turned in Steve’s direction and his head is lowered on something that Steve, from his spot, can’t see. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge Steve’s presence if not for the fact that he raises his right hand, waving his fingers in a _come in_ way.

And so Steve does, barely caressing the doorjamb with his fingertips as he steps inside his old bedroom, takes a look around.

There is a considerable amount of stuff  scattered all around the white floor and he recognizes an old slingshot that his father had made for him after Steve had asked why he couldn’t have his own weapon like he did; it consists in nothing more than a branch and an elastic secured together but Steve used to love it when he was little and always carried it anywhere he went, claiming that one day he’d be _a cop like dad_. Right next to it, placed on top of a pile of old comics, his old football helmet catches Steve’s attention; he picks it up, turns it in his hands as he takes in how the white plastic isn’t shining like it was used to, or the way the red team crest is scratched and a bit faded, and considers how time is doing what years of use couldn’t.

He remembers it, when he was the king of the _Kings_ , when every kid, every girl, everyone in the crowd would scream his name from the stands, cheer after him and the team, follow each one of his movements with amazement and expectation. Even after his mother had been gone, lost in a hell made of car pieces mixed with blood, football had been the only thing able to keep him focused, even when he’d lied in bed awake before a game, listening to the sound of Mary’s watery, fast intakes of breath in the adjoining room, when he’d known that his father was sitting somewhere downstairs, face buried into his hands and gun sitting, heavier than ever, on his belt. Even then, Steve hadn’t stopped, he’d kept playing and _moving_ , as if kinetic energy had been the only thing able to keep him afloat.

But now, everything is gone, and his helmet is just what it is, an old memory made of plastic, long forgotten on the bottom of a closet. So he places it back where he’s found it, making sure that it won’t fall and roll away, and then glances farther, scans the mess made of some colorful water pistol, an old New York map, souvenir of one of his first trips outside Hawaii, some more comics, a Tokyo snow globe that he’d brought home after one of his first missions, when everything had been easy and _new_ , a doll – probably Mary’s, he doesn’t even understand how it got where it is – and a myriad of other things. As he steps around a huge Lego bucket Steve wonders how all that stuff has managed to fit into the closet where Danny had found it without making the thing _implode_. He moves some books away from Danny’s side, places them on the nearby bed so there is a free spot right beside Danny where he can sit.

“What are you doing?”  he asks once he’s settled on the floor, voice soft as he moves one hand to rest on Danny’s shoulder.

In reply Danny slides the book that is lying open in front of him toward Steve, places a quick kiss on Steve’s knuckles before turning another page of what, Steve now recognizes, is one of his high school yearbooks. “So, are you checking my story to see if I’ve got an alibi or what?” he jokes as Danny turns another page, shows him more of his old schoolmates, people that he should be supposed to remember but that instead, in most of the cases, look just like strangers to him.

A huffing sound follows Steve’s question, as Danny giggles and gives him a knowing look, all arched eyebrows and big eyes, before shrugging and turning page again. Steve snorts. “Fine then, I won’t tell you of that time when I was a sheikh surrounded by gold doorknobs and domesticated tigers,” he grins, and the phrase earns him another look, just this time verging more on the _please, shut up before I make you_ side.

It takes a couple more pages and at least another sixty nameless faces before they get to Steve’s picture. Steve doesn’t say anything, but Danny’s hand stops anyway mid-air when he recognizes him, and his fingers run over the picture in a spontaneous gesture, almost as if he wants to make sure that his eyes aren’t playing a trick on him.

Steve leans forward, moves his hand from Danny’s shoulder to his thigh as he tries to overlap the image of the boy smiling in his direction with the one of the man that stares back at him every morning from the bathroom mirror. But, somehow, they don’t coincide as they should. “I was so different,” he murmurs, pensively.

His word must hit Danny in a particular way, because suddenly he is raising his head, eyes abandoning the yearbook to fix into Steve’s. He frowns, and his cheeks hollow in a way that means he is doing that thing with his tongue that he does when he doesn’t agree with something that Steve has just said, running it on the edge of his molars, back and forth, back and forth, until Steve asks what’s wrong.

So Steve does it. “You don’t agree?” he says, managing to sound incredulous even to his own ears. And Danny just shakes his head in dissent, blue eyes fixed into Steve’s and full of something so _rich_ that Steve almost wants to reach out and touch it- “Why?” he asks, almost unconsciously, too distracted by the way the light coming from the window is hitting half of Danny’s face, dividing it in two perfect half of the same, beautiful medal to keep attention to the words he’s just spoken.

Sadly, when Steve realizes what he’s just said it’s too late, Danny is already opening his mouth to speak, lips moving around silent letters, forming words that cannot be heard by anyone and the pain hits Steve right in the middle of his chest, as he watches Danny freeze and then shut his lips in a tight, pale line, a shadow of frustration making its way up his features to his eyes, closing everything else – _Steve_ – outside.

Steve curses mentally, clenches the hand that’s resting on his thigh so hard he can feel each tendon in it tensing under the strain, he should’ve known better, should’ve been more careful with his words, shouldn’t have let himself forget something so important, how could he?

In front of him Danny has suddenly turned into a bundle of nerves, the yearbook is still open near his feet but he doesn’t pay attention to it, just keeps staring to an empty portion of floor, one of the corners of his mouth turned downwards in a pained expression, emotions layered one over the other, disappoint, anger, _shame_ \- No, no, no.

Steve moves fast, taking Danny’s hands in his, tilting his head sideway to meet Danny’s eyes, trying to catch his attention, to take him back from whenever he’s gone, far away from Steve and this room, lost somewhere where there is nothing but emotional pain and dark thoughts, where he is alone and helpless- Steve rubs his thumbs across Danny’s palms, slowly. “Danny,” he calls, murmurs, an inch away from Danny’s lips, and keeps doing it until finally Danny focuses his eyes back on him again, until Danny blinks and everything else gets washed away, until his eyes are shining with barely-there tears.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Steve mutters over Danny’s lips, pressing his nose against Danny’s in an affectionate gesture. He doesn’t say _I’m sorry_ , knows that Danny would probably hit him if he did, because that’s not Steve’s fault as much as it isn’t Danny’s, they both know it. These are meaningless words that would only hurt them, would only make guilt blossom there where nothing is supposed to be but clean, honest feelings.

So instead Steve withdraws his face from Danny’s, just enough to look him in the eyes. “Show me,” he then says, gently placing Danny’s fingertips right over the sharp curve of his cheekbones, keeping them there until he can feel fingertips pressing against his skin, as Danny starts to get along with the plan.

It’s strange in a positive, pleasant way, the two of them sitting there in silence, into Steve’s old bedroom, surrounded by objects that carry into each one of them a piece of Steve’s life, not caring of anything else beside the noise of their breaths. As Danny slowly traces faint, old lines on Steve’s faces, re-draws the story of Steve’s youth on his skin and the time passes, sunlight slowly shifting into the bedroom, turning into something darker, casting orange shadows all over them, Steve inhales and closes his eyes, certain of the fact that, when he’ll reopen them, Danny will be smiling back at him.

***

The smell hits Steve’s nostrils as soon as the knife breaches the soft, tanned skin of the cantaloupe, bringing him to old places long forgotten, places like the food market where his mother was used to shop when he was little, where she would bring him and Mary along sometimes, two chatty, loud kids that would do nothing but hold onto her hands and point to colorful, sweet-scented fruits, toothless smiles earning some amused chuckles from others passersby as they followed their mom into her food-hunting mission, as Steve’s father jokingly liked  to call her visits to the crowded market.

As he cuts another slice from the melon, knife working quickly and precisely, Steve recalls the way his mom was used to wink each time his father said that, skin slightly crinkling at the corner of her eyes as she’d smile back to her husband.

They’d been a happy family. Not one of those perfect, front-cover worthy families, no, they had never had one of those purebred dogs, neither had they had a pricey, luxurious car or anything of the sort, but they’d been happy. Well, Mary had once owned a goldfish, but after she’d found it floating belly-up in the bowl’s water – and the fact that it’d been kind of yellowish might have influenced the fate of the unlucky animal –, they had never gone further than that. Yet, their days had been bright and joyful, even when Steve’s father would come home somehow wounded, was it a cut on one of his eyebrow or a bruise on his knuckles, Steve’s mother had always been there, pushing him to take a seat on the lanai, making him wait there until she would reappear with bandages and disinfectant, lovingly attend to his injuries like she did with Steve and Mary when they would trip or just fight between each other.

The sweet-scented, juicy melon pulp is an intense shade of orange almost like the beautiful, breath-taking sunset visible from Steve’s home, the same one that his father used to ignore when his wife would sit in front of him, tweezers and a cotton ball in her hand and eyes focused as her red, gold-streaked hair would fall in front of her eyes, curtaining them from the rest of the world. Everything had been brighter when she was still alive, even his father’s smile, the way his loud laugh would resonate through the kitchen during their dinners or the way Mary would gesticulate and just _talk_ , even Steve must have been, but he really can’t remember, though.

Noises coming from the living room catch his ears, divert Steve from his thoughts as he stops cutting the melon into small pieces and listens, catching what seems to be a- Flapping noise? But he could be wrong, because after that Danny seems to be dragging something over the floor, a chair, maybe, judging by the low, screeching sound. And then, just like it had started, the sound dies and, after a few seconds, Danny appears on the threshold of the kitchen, light blue denim shorts clinging to the naked frame of his hips as he cocks them to the side, shifts the weight over one foot as he grips the handle of the door and leans imperceptibly into the room, giving Steve a once-over look.

Steve’s hand freezes right before the blade he is holding touches the last slice of melon. “What?” he asks, eyebrows raising and spine straightening under Danny’s inspection.

But Danny just keeps staring at him in a suspicious kind of way, all narrowed eyes and pursed lips, almost as if he’s weighting something, _Steve_ perhaps, and his other hand, the one that isn’t keeping him upright by _torturing_ the poor, innocent door handle, slides right through his hair, combing and adjusting it casually, almost as if he isn’t standing there like the less subtle person ever and _silently accusing_ Steve of something that Steve hasn’t even thought about doing.

And Steve is just about to ask if this is the moment in which he is supposed to start reciting to himself the Miranda rights, because clearly he is about to get either arrested, spanked or something equally _cathartic_ – and what if this cantaloupe had a _family_ , a herd of green, little melons and a round, sweet-scented melon waiting for him and he’s just destroyed their _fruity future_ or something –, but then Danny sighs, like he can read Steve’s mind and what he was just thinking and has decided that Steve is doing a fairly enough good job at being completely nut by himself and doesn’t deserve any other help. And then, with an eye-roll and a wave of his hands, he’s once again gone.

Steve keeps staring at the empty space where Danny was standing for a few seconds longer, hoping for something, even a _Jiminy Cricket_ landing in his kitchen with the help of a miniaturized umbrella, anything that could just give him an explanation about what the fuck just happened here. But sadly, the air remains empty and still, just like Steve’s interrogatives remain unanswered. “I wasn’t  fabricating any bomb!” he feels the need to shout at Danny’s direction, he can hear him still moving in the living room, knows he heard what Steve has just said.

He doesn’t expect a reply, knows that Danny usually ignores his obvious remarks, so he starts collecting the cantaloupe’s pieces from the chopping board and places them in the bowl along with the freshly sliced red peppers. And then almost drops everything on the floor when a loud, honking sound comes from the adjoining room.

“Holy shit,” he mutters between himself, quickly opening the tap and washing away the melon’s juices from his hands. “What was that?!” he shouts, rushing towards the source of the sound and grabbing a towel on his way out of the kitchen.

He turns the corner, stepping into the living room, and this time there is no doubt, as another honking sound greets him and two pair of eyes set on him at the same time, that the source of the noise indeed wasn’t Danny. He stops on his track, mouth opening as his body acts on autopilot. “Is that-” He frowns, suddenly at a loss of words, breaths again before pointing a finger towards the couch and trying again.

“Is that a goose?” he asks. Because, well, shit, there is a goose sitting on their couch. Or a Nene, as this  Hawaiian species it’s named. Still, doesn’t change the fact that there is a huge, black and white feathered animal literally chilling on his couch, as if the- the thing owns the place or something equally _rightful_.

From where he is sitting on the couch, Danny closes his eyes in what clearly seems to be resignation – and Steve can almost hear the sound of his voice as he would reply “No, of course that’s a _tentacled alien, Steven_.” –, scratches the tiny portion of skin between his eyebrows for a moment, before opening his eyes once again and just show the palm of his hand in the animal’s direction, in a clear, _what do you say?_ gesture.

For a second the small, black goose’s eyes dart from Steve to Danny and then set back on Steve, beak snapping in what could be either a greeting or a derisory gesture. It could perfectly be saying _thanks for the brief, warm hospitality_ as well as _fuck you, man, I now own your couch_ and Steve doesn’t like to be left in the doubt, doesn’t like it at all. Especially not when Danny shouldn’t be so ascetically calm, because in their daily routine Danny is the one usually doing the freaking out part and Steve is the one throwing grenades around to fix things; that’s how it usually works, but now the goose is changing the cards on the table, without any written authorization or any paper attesting that it is _allowed_ to do so and Steve is just _this close_ to retrieve his old slingshot from where Danny has stashed it back and challenge the animal to a duel.

He must have been staring, or glaring, because next thing he knows is that Danny is at his side, fervently snapping his fingers under Steve’s nose and wearing his _you didn’t just think that because I’m telling you so_ expression. Steve knows it by now, would recognize the way dimples suddenly appear on either one of Danny’s cheek, created by the way he is clenching his teeth, lower dental arch slightly more prominent than the upper one, or how there are small, thin lines forming under the internal corner of his eyes, indicating that Danny is mentally enlisting Steve’s weak points. “It’s not like I was thinking of plucking it and baking it in the oven with a side of potatoes,” Steve says. In response, Danny crosses his arms over his chest.

“It isn’t even Christmas!” Steve tries to defend himself. “Why would I even think something like that?” He feels himself on the verge of pouting, and it’s totally unfair, because the goose is still staring at him from its spot on the couch and Danny is giving him _the look_ , like Steve is the one _abusing_ of someone else’s couch. Though he can’t see this situation going anywhere as long as he keeps staring at the animal like he wants to make a feathery boa out of it, so he tries to calm down, inhales a couple of tens of times before turning back to Danny.

Danny is still studying him, but his jaw seems to be back in place so Steve assumes that, after all, this thing can be fixed without anyone murdering anyone, which, in all honesty, is a step forward towards the easy and absolutely peaceful _extirpation_ of the damn goose from his beloved couch. Thank you very much.

“Okay,” he says, voice quiet, and Danny seems to deflate altogether, walks away to sit back on the couch, face literally two feet away from the _beast’s beak_. He seems to be either oblivious or over-confident about the fact that the goose won’t just attack him in an outburst of feral, predatory- what, hunger? Steve doesn’t even know on what it feeds on and yet here he is, trying to calculate how quickly he can get to Danny before the thing does too much damage and- “Okay,” he repeats, trying to hold the reins of his thoughts. “So, why is there a Nene- Fuck!” he calls, because the goose has just honked loudly almost as if Steve has just called her by name, and his heart has just jumped all the way to Ghana and back. Shit, those are some serious decibels.

On the other hand, Danny seems totally unimpressed by the animal’s cry, so much that his hand moves towards the goose’s head, kindly patting it like people usually do with dogs that have just brought the stick back to their master. Suddenly the speed with which the situation is degenerating against Steve becomes both disturbing and alarming, making some sort of warning siren go off into Steve’s head; so he clears his voice and tries again. “Can I ask why is there an _Hawaiian goose_ in our living room?”

The grin that Danny gives him is enough to make any hope left into Steve’s heart of getting rid of the _breathing duvet_ sink like an anchor made of lead, as his hand finds the nearest stable surface and holds onto it, preparing himself for what’s about to come.

Of course, that is how they end up having cantaloupe salad for dinner and feeding bits of melon to the goose happily waddling all around their kitchen floor. And the only reason that keeps Steve from opening the door and throwing the monstrously over-sized bird out of it is the fact that when he tries to feed Nene – because she kind of seems to recognize the name, or maybe secretly likes it, who knows – and she honks right in his face, making him almost jump out of his chair, Danny has to let go of the fork and literally slap his hands over his mouth to keep himself from hyperventilating because of how much he is laughing.

And, well, since things seems to be this way, Steve supposes that, as long as she doesn’t start stealing his steaks, she can stay.

***

Aside from Nene’s arrival, or _The Invasion Of The Goose_ , as Steve jokingly likes to call the day she fled through the open living room window and into their life, life's been very quiet lately. It’s a simple statement, but yet not one made lightly, and probably Steve would say that is more a matter of fact, since quiet is not only their house, but also Danny.

He’s _quieter_ , that’s  the lie that Steve keeps rolling back and forth in his head, keeps watering it like a thorny plant, in the faint hope that someday things would change back to how they were before _The Day_ , every piece falling again into place as Danny’s voice would be back where it belongs to, inside his partner’s, _his lover’s_ , throat and all around them, words dancing in the air and filling the long and too loud silences that keep layering one over the other, as the days pass and Steve’s voice is the only lively sound resonating into the rooms of their home.

Shame drips all over his insides each time he thinks about it, but, to be honest, Steve does barely remember the sound of Danny’s voice. What before was a constant, comforting presence in his mind now it's reduced to being just a tingling warmth in the back of his head, something that purrs and stretches in contentment each time Steve tries to recall it, but that refuses to come out from where it’s hiding. It’s frustrating in a way he’s never experienced and also terrifying, because every day, each morning he wakes up praying that _this one will be the day, please, please,_ but no day seems to be the right one, no day seems to be the day in which Danny will smile back at Steve and murmur _good morning_ right against his skin, the way he was used to. But no matter what, Steve just keeps holding him, keeps opening his eyes and hoping that one day- But it never happens.

It’s been so long that the way it happened, the exact circumstances that brought to Danny losing his voice are just a series of blurred images into Steve’s head. He remembers waking up and remembers Danny smiling at him, remembers kisses and coffee, remembers a perfect normal day as many others, remembers the dreadful, sudden realization that he’d had when the day had been almost gone and they’d found themselves once again curled together in bed. Even today, Steve can’t understand how such an important detail could have gone unnoticed to him, how he couldn’t realize earlier that Danny had gone the entire day without saying a word, not even a single syllable. He remembers the thought washing over him like a cold shower, imprinted with fire in his brain the image of the sad, knowing smile that Danny had directed his way when Steve had opened his mouth and turned to face him, how his lineaments had felt all wrong and distorted when Steve had tried to find the word, _the courage_ , to ask- But Danny hadn’t replied.

It has been like that ever since, and the sun has been going on rising and falling as if nothing.

***

During the time that Steve and Danny have spent together as a couple Steve has learned that, aside from his armchair, there are two other things inside their house that Danny just can’t go without, not even if his own life depended on it.

One of them is coffee, which Danny consumes with the same rhythm a machine gun consumes bullets, and that, as Steve has experienced even too well, means really _a lot_. Steve has no doubt that, if coffee-making were an Olympic discipline, Danny would easily win the gold medal, or maybe even a platinum one, created just for the occasion to celebrate the strong, soul deep bond that Danny shares with said dark beverage.

Thing is that, if coffee is the honey to Danny’s bee, then the bathtub in their guest bathroom represents the huge, juicy flower to which Danny is drawn to every time he needs to relax. Or, also, when he wants to lure Steve into one of those sex sessions where everything becomes hot and slippery and _thick_ , when Danny’s fingertips press against the cold edges of the tub and Steve’s breath brushes against his nape, and they move and move and _move_ , until there is almost no more water left in the tub and their lungs are filled with steam and contentment.

Oh, okay, maybe Steve loves it too, but his affection is only a pale reflex of the – not insane, of course not – feelings that Danny harbours for the porcelain-made thing. Steve doesn’t think that even Cleopatra spent so much time bathing, and she was a Pharaoh. An Egyptian one. Who liked to bathe in milk.

Not that Danny couldn’t pull it off if he wanted to. After all he kind of already acts like he owns every single atom floating around him, so it isn’t like a golden, gems-encrusted scepter would make any difference. Or a false beard, either.

Knowing him, though, Danny would probably choose to bathe in coffee, and maybe command Steve to wear one of those tiny, linen loincloths that leave nothing to the imagination and that would hang low on Steve’s hips, showing the sculpted, flat line of his abdomen. Just because Danny is evil like that, and loves to torment Steve with every sort of psychological torture he can think about.

Not to mention the fact that the whole thing is a little bit disturbing, not only for the fact that Steve feels strangely turned on by the thought of Danny bossing him around, but also because slave clothes? Not really Steve’s thing, not if they don’t feature cargo pants.

Anyway, Ancient Egyptian D/s kinks aside, there are times when Danny’s attachment to their bathtub really does verge on worshipping. Steve has had final proof of it when, one evening, Danny had placed a series of candles all over the tub’s edges, lightening them and then fluttering his eyelashes in Steve’s direction with the clear intent of deviating his attention from whatever strange ritual was going on there.

The sex had been fantastic, and they had managed to knock a good amount of candles inside the bathtub in the process, ending with a myriad of wax pieces floating around them like a strange sort of tridimensional confetti, but the feeling that Danny had just worked him into performing a sexual sacrifice to the tub’s God had just clung to Steve like a parrot on a pirate’s shoulder, or at least it had for the ten seconds that had taken to Danny to lean his back against Steve’s chest, fingers lazily tracing random patterns over his forearms.

So, seeing how much Danny loves their bathtub, it shouldn’t come as a surprise when, one day, Nene shows interest for it too, shamelessly padding into the bathroom and flying straight onto the thing’s edges right when Steve is busy leaving marks all over the tender line of Danny’s neck, hands slowly massaging Danny’s thighs under the bubbly surface of the water. At first it’s almost easy to ignore the definitely large, feathered animal that is creeping on them while they – ~~try to~~ – have sexy, naked times, but then-

“Aahnk, aahnk, aanhk!”

Nene’s cries hit the tiles on the walls like a series of well-aimed shots, loudly bouncing back in every direction, and make Steve jump a good twenty centimeters into the tub, his hands abruptly leaving Danny’s thighs as he feels the strong need of throttling the goose with the first weapon at hand, be it the bathrobe belt or Danny's mint-flavored dental floss, Steve isn’t really picky about this sort of futilities at this point. “What the actual fuck?” he asks instead. Because, what the actual fuck?

Against him, probably as a reaction to the shock, Danny starts trembling, blonde head bent forward and shoulders hunched and- Wait, no, scratch that, he isn’t trembling, the fucker is actually shaking, one hand abandoned over Steve’s knee and the other cupped against his mouth, in the vain attempt to swallow back his _laughter_. “Oh, sure,” Steve mutters, neck growing hotter and hotter with every imperceptible shake of Danny’s body. “Sure, go ahead, mock me. You won’t be laughing anymore the day she actually gives me a heart attack.” And then he proceeds to sulk, sliding lower into the tub and under the water surface and pinching Danny’s side hard enough to make him jump.

When Danny turns to face him, blue eyes lit with amusement, Steve glares at him from under a pair of frowned eyebrows. “She’s secretly planning to murder me and then seduce you, that’s what,” he grumbles, the tone in his voice the same as when he was ten and Mary used to stole his toy tanks to use them as Princess’ Barbie personal escort.

In reply to that, one of Danny’s eyebrows curls in a very telling manner, faxing a loud and clear ‘ _you moron’_ message to Steve. But, nonetheless, one of his hands cups against Steve’s cheek, guiding him into a soft, delicate kiss while the other slides from Steve’s chest to his abdomen, and then lower, right where Steve’s cock is waiting, eager to restart what has just been interrupted- Too bad that the next thing he knows is that a tub-sized Tsunami has just hit him, sending water to splash all over his face and out of the bathtub, as Nene’s cries fill the bathroom once again and _she just fucking jumped into the tub with them_.

Steve finds himself sputtering, momentarily at a loss of words – or unable to pick a bad enough epithet, doesn’t make much difference – and watches Danny grin like a maniac in the goose’s direction. Grin that is suddenly returned by an overly energetic flapping of her wings, which only contributes to drown the  moment into even more water. “Oh!” Steve shouts, outraged. And then, for good measure, he adds, “Oh! This was the last drop!” and proceeds to dislodge himself from Danny’s grip, getting up from the tub and reaching for the nearest towel at hand.

“Aahnk!” Nene replies, quieter this time, as Danny scoots over into the tub to make space for her. His hand moves to pet her on the head, fingertips gently brushing over her dark feathers, and Steve almost can’t believe his eyes, can’t believe that Danny is praising her, as if she hasn’t just been the biggest cockblocker in the history of _ever_.

“The pun was _not_ intended!” Steve half-shouts back to her, tying the towel around his hips and stomping his feet into a pair of flip-flops. As he does so, something inside his head pokes him. Hard.

 _Dude, you are talking to a freaking bird_.

He freezes on the spot, gaping for a moment. “Oh, God, I’m too old for this shit,” he sighs at last, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.

From the tub, Danny and Nene both shoot him a perplexed look, as if neither of them can understand what Steve is blabbering about. He sighs again, mentally decreeing that he can’t win this war, not when Danny and his new partner in crime have decided to act like perfectly stoic windmills, leaving to him the part of the nut chevalier.

So- “I’ll be downstairs,” he says, lips curling in a small smile when Danny makes a kissy face. “Enjoy your bath, you two.” In response, Danny waves goodbye and Nene snaps his beak back at Steve, tail wagging in short, quick movements. The _Judah_.

The rest of the house is slightly colder than the bathroom, so Steve unties the towel from his hips, uses it to absently dry his short hair as he crosses the hallway, directed towards the bedroom.

His naked reflection is the first thing that greets him when he gets there, but he walks past the mirror without sparing it a second look, opening instead one of the dressers’ drawers and grabbing a pair of clean underwear. He shoots a glance at his now soft cock, cursing once again Nene’s bad timing when it gives an expectant twitch. “Not my fault, buddy,” he murmurs, sliding his boxers on.

When he gets downstairs is still mid-afternoon and, from the open window, he can see how the sun is high on the ocean, its light kissing every single wave in an explosion of shimmering lines.

However, the powerful rumble of the ocean soon mixes with the splashing sounds coming from upstairs and Steve rolls his eyes, heads to the kitchen so he can get a glass of water and, at the same time, ponder what they are gonna have for dinner. Maybe he could make some lomi-lomi Salmon, they haven’t had it in a long time and Danny loves it, which is quite unusual for him, seen the steady relationship that he seems to have with every sort of edible meat cut on the market.

Trying to get Danny to eat more healthy food has been a real challenge for Steve but, after too many malasadas and one exploded pineapple – accident that’s been treated with the same delicacy that would’ve been reserved to a sexual scandal, seen the strict policy of _not even hinting at it_ that they’ve silently agreed to –, Steve seems to have at last succeeded. Times that Danny chooses to take over the kitchen aside, of course.

One of the kitchen cabinet doors creaks softly when Steve opens it, grabbing the basmati rice so he can put it to soak in cold water for a while before cooking it. He moves easily around the kitchen, taking a pot and a strainer to wash the rice, and then walks over to the fridge, mentally listing the ingredients he’s gonna need. _Tomatoes, one onion, two filets of salm_ \- He comes to a halt, his hands stopping midair, halfway to the fridge’s handle.

 _Miss your hands all over me._ This is what the note attached to the fridge’s says, Danny’s slightly spiky handwriting staring right back at Steve as he tries to gulp down some air, tries to will himself into motion again.

There is a moment of complete stillness, and then the paper rustles lightly when Steve’s fingers brush against it, closing against its smooth, thin surface and _pulling_ , removing it from the fridge.

The counter is a solid presence against Steve’ hips when he automatically leans against it, thoughts abruptly shifting from dinner to the black, distinct words blinking back at him from the small piece of white paper. He studies them meticulously, noticing how the ‘o’ is almost perfectly round, or the way the letters are so close that they almost seem to want to overlay each other, takes in the fluidity with which the words were put together and then caged with a period, almost resembling a feeble watercourse neatly sliced by a dam.

“Miss you,” he murmurs, thoughtful, rolling the words over his tongue as if he can’t fully catch their meaning, needs to taste them just a little bit longer- He is used to the strong pull inside his chest by now, the fire that engulfs his lungs each time he finds a note like this. And it’s not because Steve misses Danny’s voice, not because he wishes that Danny would say these things to him instead of having to write it down, even if _he does_ wish for that to happen, that is not what the deep uneasiness in his guts is about.

Of course this isn’t the first time that he finds a note like this, he’s almost grown used to them making their formidable apparition whenever Steve dares to lower his guard, almost as if _they know_ that it will take him aback, leaving Steve speechless and confused. He finds them scattered anywhere, in the most unexpected places, almost like lazy, little snakes just waiting for their prey to come to them.

It unsettles Steve beyond words, because by now it’s clear that Danny is not the one writing them. At first Steve had hardly believed that such a thing could be possible, had thought that Danny was just acting like he didn’t know about them just to get a laugh out of a difficult situation, but now- The first time he’d found one of these notes, it’d been about a week after Danny’s voice had suddenly disappeared.

The book had been one of those old, dusty volumes that Steve’s dad had kept just because he was attached to them, attached to the fact that with them in it the house looked exactly the same of when his wife was still alive, still sitting with her legs crossed on the couch and her head bent back, a throat-deep laugh painting the air in yellows and light greens. And that was more or less the same reason Steve had never touched them, leaving them to sit on the dark wood bookcase for years, almost forgotten until Danny had loudly snuck into Steve’s life and his house, until the bond between them had evolved from friendship to something more, and Danny’s belongings had suddenly started to appear all over the place, silently stating what was already loud and clear in the depth of  Steve’s heart.

Those books had taught Steve that Danny liked to spend hours and hours reading, drinking knowledge right out of the pages as his eyes shifted quickly, following the black lines. That’s why, a few days after Danny had lost his voice, Steve had thought of cleaning the bookcase, taking out every single volume and sorting them, in the faint attempt of improving Danny’s low mood.

 _It’s lonely here without you._ The piece of paper had slipped out of the book as soon as Steve had taken it in his hands, floating in the air for a second before silently impacting with the wooden floor.

Steve had picked it up, speculatively considering the strange words written on it. He’d turned the book in his hands, examining the colorful cover – a kids’ book –, before shifting his gaze back on the note in his hands. It hadn’t made sense to him, nor the note nor the place where he’d found it, and he’d spent a few more moments thinking about how the thing could’ve ended up in one of his and Mary’s old book.

Probably it had been a rookie’s mistake,  but in that moment Steve hadn’t recognized Danny’s handwriting, hadn’t even thought about it, his mind fully occupied with the image of his father sitting at his desk, a silhouette made of  tired eyes and lowered shoulders, just a lost man writing down, with trembling hands, the words that his soul was instead screaming.

The fact per se had left Steve with a distinct sensation of  lostness, like a huge puzzle had just been put in front of him and he didn’t have enough pieces to complete it. And so he’d spent the rest of the day thinking about it, folding and unfolding the small piece of paper in his hands, reading the words written on it over and over and over.

Only at late night, when they’d been resting on the living room’s leather couch, window wide open and humid ocean wind invading every corner, he’d decided to share the fact with Danny, externalizing his perplexity about the whole matter.

Sitting beside him, Danny had listened carefully, eyes bright with _something_ that Steve hadn’t been quite able to pin.

Surprisingly, when Steve finally had closed his mouth, Danny had smiled at him, but it hadn’t been one of his large smiles, the ones that involved every muscle of Danny’s face in a big happiness party, creating wrinkles around the corner of his eyes and stretching his lips to bare a line of white teeth. No, that smile had been a quiet one, as if the emotions were almost tiptoeing around Danny’s features, molding lines here and there but never really reaching the surface- And then Danny had leaned against Steve, placed one hot palm against his thigh as his lips had met with Steve’s in the softest of the kisses, brief like a puff of breath and yet _so pregnant_. When Danny’s eyes had opened again, the look in them had made something flutter in Steve’s chest, left him wondering why Danny had regarded him with such a careful glance, almost as if Steve was made of diaphanous, fragile crystal.

Everything considered, Steve is starting to think that there is a pattern linking these notes one to the other, but he still can’t understand what that is, aside from the fact that they must be addressed all to the same person. _Maybe you_ , his mind supplies, but he has no way of making sure, doesn’t understand how that could even be possible, seen the fact that Danny can’t possibly miss him, since they live together and all. Seen the fact that Danny has already made it clear that he isn’t the one writing those notes.

He folds the small piece of paper in two, running a nail against its margins as he recalls what happened after he’d found a second note tucked inside one of his pants’ pockets.

 _Pineapples on pizzas. I still don’t get it, but I could try, if only you’d_ \- The phrase had clearly been left incomplete on purpose, but, that time, Steve had been one hundred percent sure about who he had to find to get an explanation.

Danny had been busy doing push-ups when Steve had descended the stairs, but had stopped as soon as Steve’s feet had appeared in his field of vision, quickly getting up from the floor to stand in front of Steve. ‘ _What_ ’ he’d silently asked, blinking rapidly and then raising his blonde eyebrows, expectantly.

Stupidly, Danny’s adrenaline-induced smile had fooled Steve, had blinded him enough to actually show the note to Danny, ask him what that meant, what purpose was in writing such things?

But, against all Steve’s expectations, his barely murmured questions had been enough to make the smile vanish completely from Danny’s face, as dark, deep shadows had surfaced in his eyes. The look that Danny had given him, his posture, everything in him had just _shifted_ , almost as if Steve had just insulted him in the worst of the ways.

Which had been kind of funny, since Danny had been the one leaving said note to Steve, and not the contrary. In any case, Steve had found himself wanting to press Danny, wanting to ask _why_ _are you suddenly leaving nonsensical notes all around the house?_ But there had been a small something, the way Danny’s mouth had twitched downwards, maybe, or how his fingers had been clenching and unclenching, as if he’d been trying to stop himself- Something inside Steve’s chest had started to paw at his ribcage, then, and the note he’d been holding in his fist had lost every importance as he’d been hit by the realization that, for some reasons, he’d been the one summoning the shadows dancing around Danny’s irises, had been the one that had poked and poked at the delicate equilibrium between them, making it tumble over like a pyramid made of crystal glasses. And he’d had to make it up to Danny, somehow.

And he had, in his own manner.

Slipping the note in his pocket, Steve finally resorts into start moving again, opening the tap so he can wash his hands and get finally started with cooking dinner. The hiss of the water fills the kitchen for a few seconds, and he is just about to start wondering where Danny is when Danny himself walks inside the kitchen, cheeks tinted with a pale shade of red and the air of someone who’s really, really hungry.

“Hey,” Steve quietly greets him, grabs the pot from the counter so he can pour a bit of olive oil in it. “Was just about to start wondering where you were,” he says, presses a kiss against Danny’s lips as he walks to the stove.

In reply Danny sniffs, shooting a quick glance somewhere behind himself where, Steve guesses, Nene is surely taking a nap right now. Like the laziest of the pets. Or bloodsuckers, doesn’t really make much difference.

“Do you mind taking care of the tomatoes?” he asks Danny, automatically dropping a clove of garlic in the heated up oil as he speaks. “I’ll get the salmon ready as soon as I’m done here.”

A thumb-up and a head-nod later the clacking of cutlery fills the air along with the frying of the oil, as Danny grabs a knife and then retrieves a few tomatoes from the fridge, placing them into the sink.

They cook together, moving into the kitchen with an easiness that sometimes still surprises Steve, makes him think about how, after so many years of feeling lost, he’s finally been lucky enough to find something, _someone_ , so precious, something to hold on to and never let go, no matter what.

Maybe it’d been this feeling that had made him realize that something was wrong with Danny when Steve had asked him about the note, this absolute connection that Steve feels deep inside his bones, rushing in his veins and pushing him to keep going. He had _felt_ that something had been wrong more than he’d noticed it, and that same sensation had pushed him into choosing Danny’s favorite movie from one of the shelves, to cook hamburgers and salty, perfectly crispy French fries, so they could eat them on the couch, the movie playing in the background as Danny had curled in his spot under Steve’s arm, and his usual smile had slowly resurfaced from the dark place it had sunk in, returning where it belonged to.

The rice is now boiling and there is a bowl full of sliced tomatoes on the table, so Steve moves to the other side of the kitchen, opens a cupboard to retrieve two plates but then stops, turning towards Danny when he catches that something is out of place. “Why are your eyes so red?” he inquires, even if he thinks he already knows the answer.

A pair of lips pressed together in a thin, almost indignant, line and the small bowl full of sliced onion that Danny hands him are enough of a reply. Steve starts giggling, delighted and,  in what is clearly an act of revenge, Danny kicks his left shin. Which almost makes Steve tumble all over the table, where half of their dinner is sitting. “Delinquent,” Steve grumbles jokingly once he’s regained his balance.

Danny kicks him again, harder.

***

One morning Steve wakes up to the sight of a pair of feet resting against Danny’s pillow, toes barely five centimeters from his nose.

 _Blink. Blink. Blink._ Steve opens and closes his eyes a few times in succession, sleepily trying to understand if he is actually still dreaming or if Danny has, at last, turned into a living example of a Picasso’ painting. He decides that he’s neither dreaming nor having an extremely weird Close Encounter of the Third Kind when his hand moves to where Danny’s neck should be, but instead his fingers close around a considerably thinner limb. _Which would be his ankle,_ Steve brilliantly reasons between himself as his palm slides lower, following the muscled curve of the underside of Danny’s calf, there where his blonde body hair are soft and scarce.

The temptation of following the path that leads to Danny’s underwear starts soon crawling all over Steve’s back, pretty graphic images of exactly _how_ and _how many times_ he wants to wake Danny up slowly filling Steve’s mind as he lets his fingers dance lightly over Danny’s thigh, wander against hot, compact skin. He opens his eyes, finally persuaded to move by the overly obvious morning wood that’s poking at the front of his boxers, and that is the exact moment that Danny chooses to  literally stick his foot into Steve’s mouth.

Funny how Steve’s only luck is that there is no one else there to attend to such an impressive plot twist. He inhales, the thoughts in his head rapidly shifting from _unquantifiable amount of sex about to happen_ to _kinks that I’ll never have in my life_ , as he removes his hand from Danny’s thigh and grabs Danny’s ankle, pushing and keeping it at a safety distance as he tilts his head back, far away from each one of Danny’s impertinent toes.

 _Time to get up and wash your mouth, mate_ , a very wise voice whispers inside Steve’s head. And, for a moment, he wonders if the whispering thing is due to the fact that it doesn’t want to wake Danny up, which would be craziness brought to a whole new level, since not only the man is sleeping like a hibernated dormouse, but Steve knows that Danny is also usually unable to hear any sound under the ‘exploding timpani’ level, coffeemaker excluded.

Strangely, Nene is not around when Steve walks outside their bedroom so, after he’s made a brief stop to the bathroom for a very intimate encounter with his own toothbrush, he heads downstairs with the firm intention of understanding where she’s gone, seen the fact that, nine times out of ten, Steve finds her sleeping right in front of their bedroom door, ink-dark beak hidden behind one of her wings and feet tucked under her round body. And it’s not like Danny hasn’t tried to make her sneak into their bed once or twice, but Steve has refused to raise the white flag about this, firmly kicking Nene out every time in the ultimate tentative of maintaining a bit of privacy. And an active sex life, too, thank you very much.

“Nene?” he calls, in a low voice, once he gets in the living room. Everything is still outside the window’s glass, even the palm trees seeming to sleep at this time of the morning, and Steve can barely tell sea and sky apart, the two immense spaces separated by only a faint, almost silvery line. “Nene?” he whispers again, pushing the curtains aside to give a look around, an hold habit that doesn’t want to go away, even after so many years that he’s been out of the SEALs.

There is no reply coming from anywhere, though, nor Steve can hear the noise of her webbed feet against the wooden floor. “Where’s she gone?” he mutters to himself, frowning. If there is something that Steve is definitely sure of, that is that they couldn’t have locked her somewhere by mistake, or else the entire house would’ve already crumbled down under the insane decibels of her cries by now.

He walks automatically past the study, which Nene usually avoids – because that’s where Steve spends most of his time, and she isn’t interested in him, murderous plans aside –, and then backpedals almost instantly when, with the corner of his eyes, he notices that one of the windows is open, its handle rhythmically hitting the wall with every gust of wind. “What the-” he murmurs, puzzled.

They don’t usually leave any of the ground floor windows open during night, not only because, well, hey, State Police officers here, not exactly the kind of people who would leave an open invite to sneak into their house, but also because an animal could always jump inside. Even if, thinking about it, it’s not like this policy has worked very well in the past.

Steve’s mind works quickly, rewinding how he’s just walked through several rooms, unarmed and also with his reflexes slowed down by the lingering sleep, and if no one has already attacked him by now, the chances that a probable intruder would jump at his back now are really low. Six percent chance, perhaps.

Anyway, since the longest way round is the shortest way home, he stops and listens carefully, senses alert to catch any suspicious sound.

 “Aahnk!”

“Motherfucker!” Steve yelps, jumping a good two meters away from the window in one slick motion.

For a moment Steve thinks that his heart is about to jump right outside his chest and take a run straight to the nearest hospital’s Cardiothoracic Surgery division. He slams one hand over the next horizontal surface stable enough to support him. “Aahnk?” Nene repeats, tilting her head on the side and studying Steve with her small, black eyes, with an expression that clearly means _you alright there, bud?_

Too bad that the only thing that could make Steve happy right now would be the sight of the damn goose into an oven, baking with a side of carrots and potatoes. “You better fly the fuck down that windowsill right now, if you don’t want me to throttle your sorry excuse of an ass all the way to hell and back,” he growls back, almost surprised by the fact that there is some air left in his lungs.

Further proof of the fact that, after all, geese are pretty smart animals, is that Nene seems to instantly take the hint, seen the – way too eager, for someone who doesn’t speak Human – rapidity with which she jumps off the windowsill and onto the floor, before quickly waddling elsewhere, possibly towards Steve’s leather couch. Because you can take the bird out of the wildness, but you can’t take the evilness out of the bird, or something equally dooming.

Something resembling envy yawns in Steve’s chest as he wonders how is it even possible that Danny hasn’t heard anything of what just happened. He is probably still sprawled all over their bed, must have conquered Steve’s side too by now, lips slightly parted and a shimmering, sticky line of drool drenching the sheets right under his face, silent proof of the fact that there is a lethargic animal trapped somewhere inside Danny.

Steve reaches for the window’s handle, barely paying attention to the violet-blue light that’s finally starting to illuminate everything.

Outside. Steve can’t really recall the last time he’s set foot out their house, padding over the lanai’s clear, wooden boards, where the wind dances freely everywhere and the palm trees cast shaky, powdery shadows over everything.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to, just- Danny is always here with him, standing by his side and making sure that Steve doesn’t feel lonely and taking care of Steve as much as Steve takes care of him. They spend day after day together, basking in the peaceful atmosphere of their  beach house and loving each other, recreating that sense of family that Steve had once thought he’d lost. That’s what really matters, the rest comes after.

Right?

***

Steve wakes up with a start, trashing between the covers and feeling like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. Everything is dark around him and for a moment he believes he is once again trapped in the middle of the jungle, thinks he can hear the ear-piercing noise of numerous machine guns spitting out one bullet after the other, as a group of political insurgents attacks his squad with the clear intent of killing as many of them as possible. And for a second he almost can’t remember why he was so frightened, why he woke up with a distinct sense of terror clinging to the insides of his throat- Then he opens his eyes, and the silence, the quiet darkness of their own bedroom hits him like a punch.

His eyes don’t have to wander too far away, though, because Danny is right beside him, body weight balanced over his elbow as he watches Steve right back, deep lines of worry carved all over his forehead and eyebrows curved in a questioning expression. Even so, Steve sees that there’s some residual sleep in his eyes. “It was nothing,” he murmurs, swallowing to clear his voice and making a non-committal gesture. “Just a bad dream, go back to sleep.”

But, as he talks, he can feel the walls of the room closing around him, the air diminishing in his lungs as he tries to focus and he can’t- Danny’s hand feels like an anchor when it finds Steve’s shoulder, resting there as Danny leans slightly towards Steve, a serious, clear light dancing in his eyes and urging him to talk. _Don’t expect me to back off._

Maybe it happens too easily, but something inside Steve finally snaps, the last piece finally falling into place, and it feels like a river breaking down the dam by which it was constricted. “I dreamed that you were falling,” he says, voice trembling as he grips the cotton sheets under him, frowns as the sudden memory of something dark –

                                                   _pain_

_loss_

_nomoretogether_

_whereareyougoingdon’tleaveme_

_Danny_

_Danny_

_Danno_

– hits him. He feels sick, but once he’s started the words won’t just stop coming out, aligning itself one after the other. “You were falling and I couldn’t catch you, it was just as if I could only watch you sink further down. It wasn’t right- It was bright red and endless and- Fuck,” he swears, wipes the back of his hand against his sweaty forehead. Deep down, he knows that nothing could justify the feral, obscure fear that is digging its claws inside his heart, and still- “I lost you.”

All it takes is three words, and the worried look in Danny’s eyes vanishes like water falling on a dry land, grief taking its place, drawing itself all over the beloved lines of Danny’s face as every other emotion falls from him. The look that Danny reserves him is so full of something much more _deeper_ than sorrow that it shakes Steve from the core, rends him speechless as Danny’s hands land on his cheeks, fingertips delicately brushing against Steve’s cheekbones, reverently caressing skin as Danny leans over him and kisses him.

The first kiss lands on Steve’s mouth, but then Danny moves to the corner of his lips, there where the skin is tender and sensitive, slides up to Steve’s cheek, his temple, where he lingers a moment longer, feels Steve’s heartbeat thrumming inside his veins before moving again, making sure that not even an inch of Steve’s face is left uncovered as his lips travel on it.

Everything seems so surreal, so distant from how reality is supposed to feel and yet so _right_ , that Steve finds himself unable to break the moment, unable to resist when Danny pushes him once again into a lying position, cradling him against his chest as if, between them, Steve is the one in need of protection, Danny’s warmth slowly seeping into Steve’s skin like rays of sun.

Everything falls back into quietness and stillness as Steve lets Danny’s lively, steady breaths lull him back to sleep, lead him to places where he can dream safely and be sure that everything is how it’s supposed to be.

***

Between the two of them, Danny has always been the one that enjoys verbal confrontation the most, no matter if the topic is football or the last newly discovered monkey in Myanmar, if Danny knows something about it, then he’ll surely engage in a discussion with his interlocutor.

Someone would perhaps state that such a thing is a professional deformation, a habit that Danny has developed subsequently of so many years spent dealing with criminals, interrogating them with the firm intent of tricking them, talk them into opening up, so he would obtain a confession. But Steve has never believed it, has always been more prone to think that words are simply part of Danny’s way of being than a mere shield he uses to hide behind.

Weapons, that’s what words are for Danny, whips and bullets and knives that he uses to defend himself and the ones he loves, brandishing them against the rest of the world when needed, piling them one over the other to form a spiky, resistant wall. But that’s not all of it, there is also another side of the medal, where Danny’s words turn into warm embraces and wide, sincere smiles, where he whispers into Steve’s ears at night, seducing him without even trying.

Steve misses all of it, misses all the different nuances in Danny’s tone of voice, the pitches and the murmurs, misses them with an intensity that, at times, frustrates him beyond any imagination. And this happens even more when he and Danny are fighting, like right now.

There is no denying it, Steve is the one at fault this time, didn’t have the right to say what he just said to Danny – “I just wish you’d _talk to me,_ ” –, no matter how urgent the pressure around his heart, no matter how unbearable the longing. And when Danny gets up from the couch, a betrayed look in his eyes, deep, horizontal lines engraved on his forehead, it burns worse than if Danny had slapped him.

 _I didn’t mean it_ , Steve thinks, fervently, as he watches Danny climb the stairs, holding his breath until the soft click of their bedroom door closing hits him, makes something inside his chest howl in despair. Once again, he’s failed to keep his own frustrations at bay, failed to dominate himself as he should have. _He would talk if he just could_. Steve knows this, and yet the words had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, viciously stabbing Danny in the back.

Surprise and pure astonishment had made Danny’s eyes widen, his posture straightening as he’d _stiffened_ , shooting a cautious look to Steve’s direction. He’d searched Steve’s eyes for a bunch of seconds, before completely shutting Steve outside, leaving him alone in their living room as something viscous and charcoal-black had clung to Danny’s facial features, coating it in a blank expression.

Steve’s heartbeats had quickened their pace, every loud thump making his ribcage shake like under hammer blows. “I didn’t-” he’d stumbled, world hazy around its edges as his hand had moved towards Danny in a tentative gesture, before dropping over Steve’s thigh when Danny had refused to even acknowledge him.

Of course he did, that’s because Steve is a dick, and he totally deserved it, almost as much as he deserves to be punched right on his stupid mouth, so next time he won’t be able to even articulate another phrase like that, won’t  be able to let his frustrations drive him into cruelty. Because that’s what his words have been, a not so subtle form of torture, like twisting a heated up knife into someone’s guts, pocking it from time to time just to see if _it hurts_.

“Damn,” he spits, runs a hand over his head in a nervous gesture.

The noise of the bed creaking upstairs is enough to make Steve snap out of his state of trance, though, as he pictures Danny laying over the covers, bare chest pressed against the mattress and face buried into Steve’s pillow. Because no matter how much Danny could be pissed at him, no matter how angry or upset Steve would make him, they still have this sort of connection that works both ways, keeps them tied together even when the edge seems so close, when it seems that there is no other option but to breath and then _jump_ \- They will always look for and then find each other, because that’s how it was meant to be.

_Tic._

_Tic._

_Tic._

Seconds bleed quickly away as the low sound of the second hand of the clock moving becomes nothing but white noise trapped in the back of Steve’s mind. “Danny,” he says. And then, finally standing up, “Danny,” he repeats, voice much more steady, thoughts clearing as everything else gets washed away by the realization that Danny hasn’t pushed him away. No. Danny has _left_ , not because he didn’t want to be in Steve’s presence, not because he was furious – he would’ve punched Steve if he was, his eyes full of bright and strong power as he would have fought and made Steve swallow back his stupid statement -, but because Steve’s words had hit too close to home, nudging at all the doubts, every single fear and remorse curled inside Danny’s chest.

The road has never been easy for either of them, always littered with too many obstacles and contingencies, but Danny and him have always managed to find a way through every situation, managed to stay strong even when it seemed that things were never going to get better. Except this time.

The wound is always there, bleeding from time to time, hurting even, as it seems that Danny’s lack of voice is something that they can’t manage to adjust to, no matter how hard they try or how much effort they – _what about you, Steve?_ – put into it.

“So careless,” Steve reprimands himself as he finally makes up his mind, his left palm finding the solid surface of the handrail when he decides that his place is upstairs, where Danny is waiting for him.

Also, the fact that Danny had closed the bedroom door without locking it should’ve been a further clue for Steve, should have made him understand sooner- He doesn’t knock, doesn’t bother calling out Danny’s name as he enters the room, but instead feels something prickle at the angles of his eyes when the sight of him sitting with his back against the headboard, legs bent and one hand covering his face, smacks Steve full in the chest with the same destructive force of a baseball bat.

“No,” he whispers, taking a step forward. “No. No,” he can’t seem to focus on anything else as he covers the distance between the door and Danny’s side. When he gets there, Danny is staring right back at him, his eyes two large, cerulean mirrors, just waiting for the last blow that will finally crush them into something broken and yet _meaningful_ \- “We don’t need it,” Steve whispers, shy words clinging to his trembling lips as he swallows, knees beside Danny so he can look him right in the eyes. “We- _I_ don’t need to be wishing for it. Oh, God. I was so wrong. _So wrong_.”

Just the thought that Danny could be blaming himself, could be doubting Steve’s affection, _Steve’s love_ for him- That is too much to imagine, as fear blossoms inside Steve’s chest, growing, clinging and curling around his ribs like poisonous, ice-cold ivy. “I can’t lose you,” he breathes out. 

A bird sings outside the window, a short, chirping sequence of notes that suddenly becomes an imaginary limit line as Danny’s fingertips brush against the smooth, wooden line of the headboard, following every hollow and vein, lingering over a darker patch.

Steve follows the movements with intent eyes. “You won’t lose me, either,” he adds, specifies, even if he is sure that Danny already knows it.

It’s quite peculiar how a short combination of words – _the right one_ -  could make a difference, could make Danny’s eyes focus on Steve with this intensity. And maybe Steve should’ve said it aloud way sooner, shouldn’t have let Danny’s insecurities, the firm resolution of never be the one in need, never weight on someone else’s shoulders, take the wheel and lead him to a place where his lack of voice could be something that would make Steve’s love for him diminish, or even die. As if.

“You are mine, Danny.” It’s true, and instinctive, and a lot other things that Steve can’t explain but yet are there, alive and beating against his ribcage. “And this,” he says, taking Danny’s hands in his, guiding Danny’s palm to rest against the middle of his chest, “this is yours.”

Once, where Steve had been around five, he’d caught his mom crying. He still remembers the way the skin of her nose had been red, her eyes swollen and irises an endless shade of brown, remembers how the fabric of her dress had felt under his slender fingers when, worried, he’d tugged at it to catch her attention. The smile that had greeted him when she’d noticed him had completely taken him aback, and he’d watched, astonished, as his mom had started crying again, laughing and crying and hugging him and she’d looked _so beautiful_ under the orange afternoon light that Steve had started laughing too, just by reflex.

 _Life’s beautiful_ , his mom had said between tears and laughs. Steve had blinked back at her, his toothless smile mirroring his mother’s, and the Book of Names had been left open on the table, a big, intricate ‘M’ camping at the top of one of the pages and smiling right back at them.

A family is what Steve has always wanted. He’s wanted it the same way his mother had desired it, fervently and intensely, building it on dedication and love, making it become the center of her own, personal, universe. And that’s what Danny is for Steve, what Cath couldn’t be, what every other person has never been _able to_. Because Danny is pure passion enclosed in a solid body, blood and flesh and a million, perfect mistakes that make him unique and _so perfect_ for Steve.

It makes Steve want to be the person Danny needs, the one Danny will want to spend his life with, awaken and sleep and fight with, the only one that Danny will push against the mattress like he is doing now, kissing and biting and working his way up Steve’s body, marking him and owning him completely. Steve wants all of this.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs as he helps Danny losing his shirt. And he really, really doesn’t. Doesn’t deserve the steady pressure of Danny’s hips moving against his, asking for more, his short, hot outtakes of breath as his teeth find Steve’s lower lip and sink in it.

The bed creaks lightly when Steve moves further back on it, the mattress dipping under the weight of their bodies. Steve can feel sweat coiling at the back of his nape as he opens his eyes, tilts back his head to make room for Danny’s lips, feels them press against his neck as he swallows air and liquid lust. “Will make you the biggest pizza the world had ever seen, tonight.”

The puff of air hits him right over the hollow at the base of his neck, as Danny starts silently laughing, his fingers finding Steve’s hips and curling around them. “What?” Steve asks, finally genuinely relaxed for the first time since hours. “You doubting my cooking skills?” Pretending to be insulted  is almost as easy as tackling Danny on the mattress, as Steve uses his full body weight to reverse the situation, keeps Danny pinned to the bed as the other’s laugh slowly turns into something softer, way different from the dark look Danny had shot him less than an hour before.

The end of the story has already been written, everyone knows the words, but what’s in between is theirs to create, theirs to paint in touches and low moans, as they undress each other. “Come here,” Steve murmurs once they are both naked and rutting one against the other like the couple of teenagers that they aren’t anymore. He tends his hand to Danny, watches him crawl towards him until he’s sitting on Steve’s lap, his fingertips brushing against Steve’s biceps and the hot, round curve of his ass rubbing against Steve’s cock, teasing him.

“So fucking lucky,” Steve mutters, more to himself than to Danny, but he is sure that Danny hears him anyway, sees the light in his eyes shift, move like inside a prism until there are flames burning at the edges of Danny’s irises, as the other man pushes his hips down against Steve’s, urges him with the movements of his body almost as much as he would have with his words.

One kiss, two, three, they lose themselves in the feeling of skin sliding against skin, tongues and fingers playing together as Steve slowly works one finger inside Danny’s body, enjoys the way the tight circle of muscles gives in under the unrelenting pressure, widening just enough to let Steve slide another finger in, probe at the tender, hot walls inside Danny. Steve slides his lips against Danny’s neck and is rewarded by Danny arching his spine, offering himself for Steve to take, for Steve _to love_.

It doesn’t take much until they find themselves both at the edge, crazy with desire. Steve rubs the head of his cock against Danny’s hole, smearing lube all over sensitive skin and teasing Danny with short, hungry thrusts; he watches, enthralled, how Danny’s hole twitches, muscles reacting, _opening_ so Steve can sink in the delicious hotness that is Danny’s body.

“Danny.” It’s both a whisper and a prayer, as Steve finally pushes his hips forward, closes his eyes sinking his fingertips around the sharp curve of Danny’s hipbones. Endless and electric, the pleasure shoots up his spine like a lightning bolt, leaving Steve breathless as his hands travel slowly all over the muscled expanse of Danny’s back, feeling the way his breath catches when Steve’s cock slides just that little bit deeper. “Just like this.”

The hazel brown of the headboard looks even darker when Danny’s fingers circle it in a tight grip, so Danny can steady himself as Steve fucks him again and again _and again_ \- “So good to me,” Steve mutters between clenched teeth, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple as he pushes his cock inside Danny once again, focuses over the perfect feeling of smooth and hot and _mine_.

Under Steve Danny gives almost as much as he takes, pushing himself back to match Steve’s thrusts, arching his back and keeping himself spread open for Steve’s cock- Oh, he loves it, and his gestures make up for what he can’t say, showing to Steve how much he wants him, making him understand, even if his words are soundless. Danny will always find a way.

It’s almost like with classical music, when violins start playing and everything becomes quiet and delicate, when air dances over every note and it’s like crystal, but then- Then the organ starts playing, the others instruments joining in one after the other, and suddenly the air is full of so much destructive power, like a giant wave running towards the shore, and you can’t do anything but let it carry you wherever it wants. Let _it dominate_ you.

So Steve lets the rhythm take the reins, follows the flow as Danny’s body milks every desperate, needy sound out of him, squeezing him in the best of the ways, welcoming him and then fighting to keep him in as Steve moves and moans, pushes in and out and rests his forehead against Danny’s back, eyes wide open and lips parted as he comes inside Danny.

Fluidly, not even missing a beat – and Steve is coming inside him, one spurt after the other. Coming and _filling him_ –, one of  Danny’s hand finds Steve’s, fingers intertwining with his as Danny’s other hand closes around his dick, and he starts moving again, lazily this time, clenching around Steve’s almost-soft cock and rocking under him.

“Come for me, Danno. Come on,” Steve smiles against his skin, urging him with small thrusts of his hips. And Danny does, beautifully, splashes of come landing over the sheets as he melts under Steve’s touch, tilts his head back so he can kiss Steve, feel the hotness of his chest against his back.

Time is just a mere definition, something that neither Steve nor Danny are willing to pay attention to, not anymore. So they lay on the bed, both sated and slightly sleepy, basking in the after-glow of sex and enjoying the silence that, for the first time since hours, is finally welcomed.

There is a quiet smile lingering over Danny’s lips, and Steve watches, his eyes lingering over the faint stubble covering Danny’s jaw, over a small, slightly lighter patch of skin where, during an armed conflict, a sharpened piece of glass had once hit Danny, making blood drip over his chin and Steve’s heart drop under his feet. That is the first of many more scars that Danny has on his body, almost as many as Steve’s himself, a sign of how much dedication, how much _soul_ they put in their work. And the same powerful energy, the same passion is what keeps their relationship going, day after day.

That’s why, when Danny takes Steve’s hand in his, kissing his palm and then placing it over his own chest, right where his heart beats, loud and lively, Steve smiles. “Love you too,” he whispers back, taking his and Danny’s hand back, mirroring Danny’s gestures so he can place them both, intertwined on his own chest, right where his heart it’s beating faster than ever.

Slowly, lulled by the slow ticking of the clock, Danny falls asleep beside Steve, hand still abandoned over Steve’s chest and head resting against the tender spot at the base of his neck. His breath evens and Steve lets it become white noise, the peaceful, beloved theme of his days and nights, as the time goes by and Danny sleeps beside him.

It’s not much later, or so it seems to Steve, that Nene waddles silently into their room, as if she has every right to. Steve would like to point out that their bedroom is supposed to be feathered animals free, and that he’s sure that, somewhere, there is a written contract stating so, but, seen the circumstances, he chooses to regally ignore the fact. Just this once.

Clearly unaffected by Steve’s reproaching stare, the goose gives him a long look before turning her black eyes over Danny’s sleeping figure. Then, after long seconds, she sets them back on Steve. “Words aren’t needed between us,” Steve murmurs softly, careful to not wake Danny up.

But, as Nene ruffles her feathers and turns her tail to Steve, his words keep echoing in Steve’s mind, like a twisted, broken record.

***

The first time Steve had picked _Rambo – The Complete Collector’s Set_ from one of the shelf sitting in the living room Danny had rolled his eyes, waved his hand in the air in a clear _you must be shitting me_ way and then had turned tail, vanishing into the kitchen. Steve had been left there, standing in the middle of the room, the DVD box in one hand and the remote in the other, asking to himself what he’d done. But, before he could do anything else aside from scratching the back of his head, Danny had reappeared, carrying a huge bowl full of cheetos and two beers and placing them on the table in front of the couch, before sitting down.

“Movie night afternoon version?” Steve had asked, waving the box set and grinning like a kid.

From the couch Danny had sighed loudly, before patting the cushion beside him and taking a sip of his beer, in a false resigned way. Steven had given him a knowing look, not buying Danny’s farce for even a second, and had inserted the DVD into the player, before taking his place beside Danny on the couch.

It had started in an unusual way,  as always, and it has become a sort of tradition, to spend some afternoons watching action or war movies, the explosions and bullet noises sometimes covering the loud, rumbling sound of the rain hitting the house outside. They have watched almost all of them by now, starting from _Full Metal Jacket_ , all through _Saving Private Ryan_ and _Pearl Harbor_ – the fact that, around the finale, a box of tissues had strangely appeared beside Danny is something no one ever mentions. Because it never happened. Tissues are classified in the Mc Garrett-Williams house, thank you very much –, straight to _Band Of Brothers_ and _The Pacific_ , which have kind of sucked them into a sort of series-a-thlon in which they spend more time in front of the TV screen than sleeping. Almost.

They are just in the middle of one of the episodes, in which Sledge has just saved Snafu’s ass in the middle of the Peleliu’s airfield and demonstrated to be just as BAMF as any other marine on the island, and Danny sighs heavily, shaking his head as if he and Eugene Sledge carry the same, heavily armed burden. Steve of course has no idea of what his partner is thinking about. Really.

But then the company’s commander, Ack Ack – a name so simple for a man with such moral stance – gets shot and killed by a Japanese sniper, and the desperation of the men, the shot’s noise, sets into Steve’s mind and doesn’t go away, distracting him from the movie, making his mind wander into places he once knew but barely remembers of. He blinks, suddenly alarmed by his mind’s immediate diversion, almost like a kid that is learning how to walk and doesn’t know yet how to turn direction and keep standing at the same time.

In the background the war is a lively, merciless presence, but Steve isn’t paying attention to it anymore, an insistent thought poking at the insides of his head and pushing him to stand up. He pats Danny’s shoulder before leaving the room, climbing the stairs so he can get to their bedroom, check if everything is where it’s ought to be.

And it’s there that Danny finds him an indeterminate amount of time later, crouched in front of the trunk that’s sitting at their bed’s foot, sweat dripping at the back of his head and a frantic look in his eyes. The room is in a clear state of mess, the closet’s doors are wide open and it looks like the piece of furniture has been rummaged thoroughly, random clothes hanging out like sinister, limp puppets; every drawer in the room has been left open carelessly, as if the person that had opened them had preferred moving over the next one in his frenetic research, better than lose a second to close them properly.

Probably it’s exactly what has happened, though, seen the energy that Steve is putting  into turning upside down the contents of the trunk. A puzzled, worried look paints itself all over Danny’s features as he covers the distance between him and Steve – in the background, people are dying – and then touches his shoulder, lightly, carefully, like a kitten playing with a tiger’s tail.

The hold of Steve’s hand is strong when it closes around Danny’s, his eyes dark and _lost_. “My- My gun,” he staggers, horror washing over his spine like bleach over black ink. “Where is my gun? Danno, I can’t find it anywhere.”

It’s like he can’t breathe, like he doesn’t know who he is anymore, doesn’t know what he _could_ be without his weapon, without its heavy weight against his hip, the sense of security that his gun has always represented. And it scares him, shaking him from the core as he holds on to Danny, waits and hopes that Danny, his heart, will give him some sort of reassuring response, will turn around and pull Steve’s gun out from the only corner left untouched by Steve’s hands. Like a magician with white rabbits, Steve hopes that Danny will be the one – _the only one_ – able to restore a faint, amazed smile on his lips, but, instead, a dark look covers Danny’s eyes more effectively than a cylinder would as his fingers tighten their grip over Steve’s shoulder. But they are trembling, or maybe it’s Steve that’s trembling, he can’t tell anymore- Danny starts crying.

During the past months, there have been a few times in which Steve has noticed, unseen, how Danny would look sad at times, sitting on their couch but still lost in thoughts. It had been like watching the curtains fall over an old stage, and something had started to pull at a place deep inside Steve’s chest, like a capricious child with his mom, while deep, meaningful wrinkles had formed around Danny’s eyes, his hands moving over Nene’s head rhythmically and slowly, almost automatically, as if, in that moment, Danny had been away with his mind, lost into places that Steve feared to even imagine.

Steve has always been a fearless man, he was taught to be, but lately it seems that he can’t make the two pictures of _once_ and _now_ coincide, like he is using the wrong pieces to try and finish his puzzle. That, this sense of powerlessness, it scares him, makes Steve want to scream and punch and _fight_ , destroy every hour, every day that he’s spent in this state, so he can finally be someone different, can get back to who Steve Mc Garrett was, to the man he has almost forgotten about but still lives in his chest, struggling to break free from the chains around his wrists.

Yet, this sense of rebellion dies in him at the same moment the first tear falls from Danny’s eyes, killed and overwhelmed by something deeper, that same something that always pushes Steve towards Danny, pushes him to his _anchor_. So- “Danny,” he breathes out, calling his lover, turning away from the trunk, finally finding again some kind of focus.

But Danny is already looking at him, crying silently and watching Steve with his blue eyes, so intensely, so desperately, clinging to Steve’s shoulder almost as much as Steve is holding onto him.

“What are we doing,” Steve says, grief and sorrow rooting inside his chest at last. “What _am I_ doing," he repeats, more consciously this time, leaving Danny’s eyes for only a second, taking in the complete state of mess the room is in, the absolute disaster that _he_ has created.

There is no response, no voice replying to Steve’s desperate questions. There _can’t_ be. And yet Danny opens his mouth anyway, lips moving and forming soundless words as he cries, as he lifts his other hand to Steve’s other shoulder, keeps him in place and lets his tears slice holes into Steve’s heart.

“Why are you-” Steve tries to ask, tries to _understand_ , but his head is spinning, overwhelmed and lost and- _Why_.

From outside, the late afternoon sun is casting orange, heavy shadows all over the room, Steve can see them dancing all over Danny’s face, playing hide and seek over the deep lines that have carved themselves in Danny’s forehead, reflecting itself and shining there where Danny’s tears have fallen- _are_ falling, slowly and yet more meaningful than ever.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, places a hand against Danny’s solid jaw to stop him. “It’s okay,” he repeats, more steady this time. “I don’t need a gun when I’m with you,” – shoot, run, scream, someone tearing him apart from the inside – “I don’t even know what got into my mind. I’m sorry.”

The apology falls between them like rocks rushing down a mountain’s side during an avalanche, unexpected and violently, making their breath catch and Danny’s tears stop at once. _Don’t_ , Danny mimics with his lips, Steve reads it clearly as he notices the way Danny’s eyebrows are curling downwards, not frowning, just pondering something, refusing to let Steve’s words sink in.

It’s weird, even frightening, the way things have spiraled down so quickly, trapping them into this situation where any move or word could make them tumble over and leave them on the ground, helpless.

“We’ll get through this,” Steve says. But, strangely, his trembling words don’t taste like a promise like they always do.

“Aahnk!” Nene calls from downstairs, probably in a _where’s my dinner, bitches?_ way, seen the hour, but neither Steve nor Danny make a move to get up.

***

Time is running out and Steve must hurry up, run towards the hot-air balloon before it’ll take off without him, leaving him alone on the ground. He needs to get on there, on one of those colorful, huge things that his sister Mary used to point at with her small fingers where they were little.

Finally Steve stops in front of it, but the night around has gotten even darker, almost lightless, and he feels the urge, the _need_ , to be quicker, to jump into the wicker basket before the dark will get to him, will claw at his ankles and swallow him whole into the nothingness around. So he does, jumping in and keeping his guard up, until the balloon starts to leave the ground and the night starts losing that edgy appearance of threatening and wild and _no more_.

The realization of the fact that Steve is, in fact, dreaming comes from the fact that suddenly there is water around him and he finds himself falling, falling and falling while the night around him slowly turns into a hot, luminous day. There is no fear biting at Steve’s guts, no worry as air caresses him and guides him to land on his feet, making him touch the ground as if he hadn’t been miles and miles up in the air just a few moments before.

And then, suddenly, Danny is there too, standing beside Steve but looking elsewhere, glaring and staring at something in front of him, almost as if Steve was transparent, as if Steve wasn’t there. “Danno,” Steve smiles, though, happy that finally he isn’t alone in his dreams, that Danny has followed him here too.

But Danny doesn’t turn, just bites on his bottom lip as if Steve hasn’t even spoken, and it’s then that it hits Steve, rushing into his mind like a powerful, flooding river, filling every empty space, Danny’s thoughts, _his sensations_ , hit Steve as if they were _his_. He gapes, suddenly surprised and overwhelmed, gulps down a generous intake of breath as Danny, and Steve with him, feels the strong, powerful bite of the sunrays on his bare neck, heat mercilessly seeping into his skin as he starts to run, his camaro suddenly forgotten behind him.

Almost as if dragged by an invisible calamite, Steve starts running at Danny’s side. He finally understands the situation when he notices a tall, broad-shouldered man run about ten meters in front of them, when he recognizes himself in the figure that Danny is chasing, the person Danny is thinking about, as he skips a bike parked right in the middle of the sidewalk – fifty-dollar fine, by the way – and speeds up, trying not to lose sight of his partner. His definitely _stupid_ partner, who is a good ten meters in front of Danny and practically breathing on their suspect’s neck.

It’s like Steve is dreaming about re-living his own life through Danny’s eyes and it feels weird and wrong in a way he can’t explain, the thought of something horrible pulling at his insides as Danny’s thoughts become his, as Steve keeps running beside him.

The boy – twenty, maybe twenty-three years old, from what it seems – is running as if he’s got wings on his feet, racing easily through the passersby and throwing random objects on the other Steve’s way in the vane hope of slowing him down. It’s like watching a prey throw potatoes to an hungry lion, more or less.

Steve hasn’t never considered himself like this, but it seems that Danny can see him clearer than anyone ever could or will be able to. He lets his feet carry him and suppresses his thoughts, concentrating on Danny, his mind, his thoughts, as everything hits  him like a wave.

Because to Danny it doesn’t matter that Steve is some kind of crazy robot who can run miles without even sweating, nor does that Danny has always be faithful to the ‘police officers are required to stay in shape’ politic, and so can keep up with Steve for a honest amount of time. None of that matters, because surely an Hawaiian marathon hadn’t been the kind of sport Danny had looked forward to when he’d woken up that morning. Not even a bit.

And anyway the suspect, such Jason Hale – as Kono had texted him while they were on their way –  isn’t even Danny’s real target. Nope, he is Steve’s target. And Steve is Danny’s.

Because Steve is the one running in front of Danny and Steve has been the one who’s ignored Danny’s suggestion to, you know, hop in the car, when the suspect had noticed them and, instead of throwing both hands in the air and say ‘ayo, gotta let go’, had started to run. Because Steve has been the one taking off after him as if cars were just too _mundane_ for him.

So, yes, Steve is going to catch the suspect and handcuff him. And then Danny is going to catch Steve and endlessly rant until Steve will understand that you don’t just act towards procedure like you did with math during high school. You don’t go and ignore it because it’s _boring_ and, most of all, you don’t ignore your partner’s reasonable suggestions in favor of whatever nut idea the damaged neurons in your brain just suggested you.

And of course the notion will stick to him for three seconds sharp before being swallowed by aforementioned crazy neurons. Because that’s just the way they roll.

The amount of affectionate sarcasm that Danny seems to aim his way amuses Steve beyond any word, it feels like he is rediscovering his lover all over again, and he likes it, even if this is just a dream, a figment of his imagination. And so, he doesn’t seem to have to put much effort into keeping the pace, as Danny carries him along with him, makes him feel like nothing but air, something so incorporeal that can easily rest in a corner of Danny’s colorful, bright mind, absorbing his thoughts and becoming one thing with him.

They round a corner and take a residential road, with rows and rows of large, white constructions aligned one after the other. It seems to be almost lunch time and the place is quiet, immersed in that lazy, warm summer air that makes everything look foggy, almost opaque. In front of them there is a dark patch on the back of the other Steve’s shirt and Danny himself is starting to feel the strain in his own thighs, Steve knows it, can feel too the way the air is burning in Danny’s lungs as he tries to speed up and actually think of something to put an end to this ridiculous situation.

They guy they are chasing isn’t even worth the effort. He’s just a small fish, just a dealer at the base of the drug food-chain, and once they will catch him – because _they will_ – he’ll sing loud and clear enough to embarrass a nightingale.

They turn into a side way and finally find themselves almost beside Steve. Danny, and Steve with him, can hear the way his partner is breathing, loud and steady, as if he could go on for another hour and not miss a beat. Thing is that Danny knows that Steve probably could do it, so he is surprised when, from the corner of his eye, he catches Steve’s hand flying towards his holster.

Surely a hole in his leg won’t keep the boy from talking but this isn’t the way they work, even if they have to stop him somehow, even if there is no one around- and then Danny’s eyes catch something else, a flash of yellow and a giggling sound, as a girl runs towards them while chasing what seems to be a cat. “Nani! Nani, come here!” she half-laughs, too distracted by the furry animal in front of her to pay attention to anything else.

Everything happens so quickly that Danny doesn’t even manage to shout to her to _get away from there! Clear the way!_ before the boy is grabbing her by her shoulders and- With a potential hostage in his hands the possibilities become endless. They know that the suspect isn’t armed or he would have shoot at them by now, but he could always have a knife on him. Hell, even a simple key could be extremely dangerous if placed in the wrong hands.

But then, as rapidly as he’s grabbed her, Jason in spinning the girl around and literally throwing her at the other Steve. The poor thing is so taken aback by it that she doesn’t even scream, just tumbles against him like a sack of potatoes, her yellow dress shining brightly under the midday sun.

Before her very inconsistent weight manages to slow him down Steve catches her and then just dodges the obstacle as if she wasn’t even there in first place. The girl – eyes open wide, lips slightly trembling – doesn’t even manage to stand after that, and Danny’s eyes widen in apprehension as she just staggers and then crumbles on the concrete of the sidewalk as though she hasn’t any more strength in her legs.

Steve looks towards his double, resents the way he doesn’t even spare her a second look and how it makes something screech inside Danny’s chest. “Damn,” Danny hisses through clenched teeth. He slows down just a bit, lets Steve outdistance him, _them_ , again. “You okay, miss?” he asks, keeping an eye on Steve and the guy ahead him as they jump a fence. And so they are out of sight.

Steve watches Danny as he helps her back on her feet and the girl sets a pair of scared, lost eyes on him. “Yes, yes, I think so,” she murmurs feebly, as if not sure. She is clearly confused and scared, but unarmed, Danny assesses rapidly.

“Good,” he adds briefly and then takes off again, aiming for the fence Steve has just jumped over, right after leaving him alone with a scared civilian.

Danny, and Steve with him, adds _unlawful entry into property_ to the weekly crimes list that he’s committed in the name of justice as he lands right in a perfectly kept English garden. For a moment he is completely lost, doesn’t know which way he has to go and, fuck, he’s lost Steve again and this time Steve is gonna pay for this, he’s gonna pay for leaving Danny behind as if _he isn’t needed_ \- a loud crash coming from behind the corner startles him. _Them._

Clear sounds of a fight reach his ears, and beside him, Steve freezes. Danny quickly removes his Heckler from the holster, and then there are some more muffled words and a crashing sound followed by a loud, scary silence. He turns carefully the corner, senses alert and gun firm in his hand.

The scene that greets him is one that Danny – and Steve doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to see it, doesn’t want to look but his eyes are open _and he can do anything about it_ , can’t stop it from happening – will remember for a long, long time.

His heart is hammering in his chest and the first thing he sees is a large, opulent pool, shining quietly under the blazing noon sun. Then he takes in all the mess around it, some wrecked chairs, an upturned table and a few crushed flower pots. Pieces of terracotta are scattered all around the floor, right where Steve is.

Steve, who is lying in an unnatural pose, limbs abandoned against the hot tiles and a large patch of blood spreading under his head. And Jason – _the target_ , Danny’s mind supplies – is standing right next to Steve, chest raising fast for the long, tiring run and large, shaken eyes fixed on Steve’s body.

Danny unlocks the safety.

The boy is grinning as if he’s won something, as if he’s managed to outrun Steve and now he will get some kind of price – straighten your posture, aim – as if crushing a fucking flower pot on Steve’s head will get him something different than checking out the grass from underneath.

Everything happens in a handful of seconds. Danny moves to reach a clearer firing line and the gravel under his feet creaks, a grating sound, like broken glass against ice, and the boy’s head snaps in his direction and- he isn’t armed and Steve is still unconscious. Is he? Do I have to kill you, boy? Do you _deserve it?_

Danny shoots.

Next thing he knows – next thing Steve can process, as the dream forces him to _keep going_ , go ahead – is that Jason has slumped on the floor, screaming and clenching his neck and he is covering the distance between him and _fuck you, fuck you so much McGarrett_ and sliding his phone from his pocket.

Chin picks right up after the first ring, Danny doesn’t even give him the time to breath. “The guy smashed a fucking flower pot on Steve’s head, send an ambulance to- damn, I don’t even know where! You’ll have to track my phone. Just hurry, he- he needs it. _Yesterday_ ,” he almost stutters, growls, kneeling beside Steve and taking in the nasty gash on his forehead and the way his hair is all dirty and soaked with blood.

Beside him, Steve observes the was his own self is lying on the floor, it looks like one of those scenery he’s used to see in pictures, like one of the many crime scenes he’s attended in his own life. Yet, he can’t seem to tear his eyes from it. He keeps taking in any minor detail as Danny slides his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs it around the wound, cleaning it to see the real damage, and fuck if he’ll not kill him once Steve gets better.

“We already know where you are, I’ll send an ambulance right now” Chin replies. “Kono and I are on our way. A woman called the police about five minutes ago signaling that there were two men fighting in her garden. We figured you might need help. See you in four minutes,” he says, short and efficient.

He doesn’t ask how badly Steve is injured, doesn’t ask if Danny is okay, and Danny – _Steve_ – can hear the loud, comforting rumble of the truck in the background. Everything will be okay.

And then Danny glances at the figure behind them, rolling on the tiles. “Wait,” Danny says. The boy is coughing and crying and chances are high that he’ll drown in his own blood before the paramedic will arrive, but still- “There is also a second injured man, bullet wound on his neck, send another ambulance, just in case,” he adds.

Because there is a reason Danny hasn’t aimed for the head, there is a reason he didn’t shoot mortally a twenty-three years old boy even after he almost killed his partner, even after he almost – just a few centimeters lower and he’d hit Steve’s temple – has deprived Danny of _his lover_.

The other Steve is still unconscious and there is nothing that Danny can do for him right now, so Steve watches him as he takes off his shirt and gets up, tie still around his neck as he approaches the boy. He leans down to assess the damage that his own bullet has done, presses the cotton of his white shirt against the nasty gash in the side of the boy’s neck and watches as dark blood seeps through the cotton fibers, soaking them.

The boy grabs Danny’s wrist with slick fingers, almost claws at the tender skin under his fingertips, and gurgles something unintelligible. Danny presses harder on the wound.

“Everything will be alright,” Steve hears himself murmuring along with Danny through clenched teeth. Danny glances to his left side where Steve is lying, all long and still limbs and a pair of frightened eyes meet his as he settles to wait for the paramedic to arrive. “Everything will be alright,” he repeats.

When Steve wakes up, his eyes are full of tears.

***

“Fuck, Danno,” Steve exhales, amazed, as he pushes the butt plug deeper inside Danny’s hole, watches it disappear little by little, greedily swallowed by  Danny’s body.

In front of him, from where he is kneeling on the bed, Danny shudders, parts his dark pink lips in the attempt of gulping down some air as he twists the covers between his fingers. Every muscle in his body is tensing with the effort of keeping still, keeping himself from pushing back against the plug, against Steve. And Steve loves it, loves the absolute control that Danny has over himself, the way he restrains his desires just to please Steve, just to give him moments like this one.

To be honest, the plug had been kind of a surprise to Steve, something that he hadn’t been expecting to make appearance that day, but, when Danny had carefully taken it out from one of the drawers, a liquid fire had suddenly lit up inside Steve’s groin, the thoughts of _yes_ and _Danny_ and _wide_ , filling his mind like a waterfall landing on a dry river bed.

It hadn’t been difficult to guide Danny into a kneeling position. Careful of Danny’s delicate knee  Steve had guided him until he’d been facing the mirror, forearms  solidly resting on the mattress and head slightly bent. “Perfect,” that’s what Danny had been and is right now, as Steve brushes his fingers over the soft, hot circle of muscles closed around the smooth surface of the plug.

In response to Steve’s intimate, delicate touch, Danny’s hole twitches, widening and then closing again around the dark grey silicone, making it slide in just a little bit more and making Steve swallow in anticipation of the hotness, the slickness that will greet him once his dick will take the plug’s place inside Danny. “You look so delicious,” he says, shifting his weight so he can lap at Danny, slide his wet, hot tongue over the perfect rim of muscles, down to Danny’s round, heavy balls.

It doesn’t take much before Danny starts humping the bed, pushing himself against Steve’s mouth and his big, capable hands, panting and squirming and almost pleading with his eyes for Steve to finally _fuck him_.

And that’s exactly what happens, after Steve has slid the plug out Danny, left it abandoned on the covers as he tongued at Danny’s opening, enjoying the way it responded to his touch. “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmurs once the head of his cock has disappeared inside Danny and he’s caged Danny’s hips with his hands, so he can keep his lover still as he fucks into him, moving and taking everything from him, draining every drop of want, love, desperation out of his body and replacing them with _forever_.

Danny takes it beautifully, moving along with Steve, turning his head so he can kiss Steve, can open his mouth and let Steve’s tongue redraw the blunt line of his teeth, run against the roughness of the roof of his mouth and the slickness of his tongue, abandoning himself to Steve’s will. It makes Steve’s rhythm falter for a second, taken aback, and then he starts driving into Danny’s body with renovated vigor, his fingertips leaving red marks all over the thin, pale skin covering Danny’s hipbones, but he doesn’t care, neither of them does, as they move and move and move- _It’s time_. It’s a loud thought into Steve’s mind, it’s a scream anticipating the devastating force of the orgasm that hits him, come spurting out of his cock with the same speed of the blood rushing in his veins.

And then, everything becomes black.

***

It’s a quiet morning, probably still in its early hours seen the paleness of the light. Steve blinks, not quite awake yet and willing to yield to the temptation of lazing in bed for a while, but something is biting at the edges of his mind, telling him that something’s not right. So he blinks again, quicker this time, sliding his hand over the mattress so he can reach Danny- He stops, perturbed, when, instead of a hot body, his fingertips reach the end of the bed.

“Steve?” Danny’s voice says, a trembling note dancing in his tone, spinning like a whirligig in the air and making an alarm go off into Steve’s head.

The face that greets him when he finally opens his eyes is Danny’s, but Steve is taken aback for a second by how much it looks different from the usual. Tired, with dark shadows painted all around his eyes and a line of worry digging its way between his eyebrows, Danny looks another person.

“Steve!” Danny calls, more frantic this time, so high he almost drowns the acute, rhythmic beep of the breathing machine Steve is connected to.

A hospital. Steve thinks, lost, as the puzzle’s pieces slowly start to melt together, and he takes in the way the lights are coming from all the wrong places, how everything looks too pale and too yellowish under them. Even Danny.

Danny that now is getting up from his chair, from where he’d been sitting beside Steve’s bed, an indescribable expression painted all over his face and a bright, lively light burning in his eyes. And then, before Steve can register it, he is up and out of the room and Steve can hear him shouting for _the doctor! Go find the doctor! Steve is awake!_

The moment in which the thought that finally, _finally Danny is talking again_ hits him is also the one where every line in the room becomes blurred, as Danny’s voice comes back, together with other, extraneous voices, and everything falls into darkness again.

***

The Lanai is the place that Steve has missed the most during his hospital stay, the muffled, comforting sound of the waves crashing on the shore, the soft rustle of the humid ocean wind sliding between the palm trees, its familiar, beloved scent filling his nostrils and making him feel safe and his heart beat faster in his chest.

It has taken three weeks and a lot of meds before the doctors have given their consent to dismiss him from the hospital, and then another two weeks before Danny has permitted him to even think about leaving the bed. And, if Steve has to be completely honest, he has to admit that he’s enjoyed the small disputes that they’ve had since the day he came home, like the one about whether or not Steve should use his brand new wheelchair to go to the bathroom. _You should be using a damn camo-printed bedpan!_ Danny had shouted that day, waving his hands in front of Steve’s face in the useless tentative of stopping him from getting off the bed.

The sound of his voice, the way his lips move when he speaks, his tongue curling around the vocals and then hitting his teeth when he wants to state a concept, Steve loves it, has always loved it, even when he’d thought – Dreamt? – that Danny’s words would slowly become only a mere memory, something he’d have to preserve in a secret corner of his mind, like the very last of the gems. And now here he is, speaking and laughing and insulting Steve, calling him names for leaving Danny alone for so much, for making him fear the future for the first time in his life.

“That morning, I thought that I lost you,” Danny says, slowly tracing the scar on Steve’s temple with a fingertip, light and delicate like a puff of air.

Warm ocean wind is washing over the lanai and over the sofa they are curled on together, limbs intertwined in a complicated entangle of skin against skin, and Steve shudders at Danny’s touch, compares it to other, more desperate gestures. “Even while I was unconscious, you were always with me,” he murmurs at last, nudging at Danny’s cheek with his nose, breathing in his scent.

“Was I?” Danny doesn’t push, doesn’t ask what Steve is referring to, just lets the question quietly float in the air between them. But, even so, there is a small, timid light in his eyes that tells Steve what Danny isn’t saying, tells him that Danny _understands_.

This time, it isn’t complicated, as one word fills Steve’s mind, pushes to get free and he smiles, his heart beating with the same placid rhythm of golden sand trickling inside an imaginary, extremely fragile hourglass. “Always.”

It’s a whisper against Danny’s lips and then the kiss that Steve had been waiting for, as the laughing, happy sound that reverberates into Danny’s throat becomes the most beautiful thing that Steve will ever hear.

 


End file.
